


Justice, Interrupted

by Dawn (sunrize83)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Virtual Season/Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 12:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16367528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/Dawn
Summary: How far will one man go to see justice served?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written with Sally Bahnsen for the I Made This Productions Virtual season 9 cliffhanger and season 10 opener.

TEASER:

Behavioral Science Unit  
Quantico  
12:04 a.m.

 

"Gee, McNally, this letter from your mom is so sweet. It's got me   
feeling all warm and fuzzy inside."

Sal DeAngelo ducked his head to hide a grin, watching from the   
corner of his eye as Kyle McNally flipped Corey Peterson the bird.   
With no major cases pending, most people had headed home hours   
earlier and an unnatural quiet had descended on the bullpen.   
Peterson's smartass remarks were a welcome diversion.

"Damn computer virus." McNally dropped into his chair and began   
shutting down his computer, stabbing buttons and cursing under   
his breath. "I'm still not certain who got pieces of what files. It sent   
my mother a chunk of the profile I was working on. And I won't   
even go into the photos it sent Father Callahan."

Sal clicked his tongue against his teeth, grinning. "Have you been   
collecting dirty pictures from that sleazy Web site again? Shame   
on you, ASAC McNally."

"I seem to recall a few tasteless bookmarks in your collection,   
Saint DeAngelo."

"I got no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't know what I'm tawking about, huh?" Kyle mimicked his   
"Brooklynese" with sarcastic accuracy. "Why doesn't that surprise   
me?" He sighed, running his fingers through thinning blond hair.   
"What are you still doing here, anyway? Please don't tell me you're   
obsessing over the Mitchell murder again."

"All right, I won't tell you."

"Saaaal." Kyle stalked over to Sal's desk and plucked the manila   
folder from the blotter, closing it and tucking it under his arm.   
"Gary Jansen is a serial murderer. He killed Monica Mitchell and   
four other women in cold blood. He's been tried, convicted, and   
sentenced. Justice has been served--let it go."

"Didn't anything about this case bother you? Weren't there any   
pieces that just didn't fit?"

"No."

"Then tell me why the guy broke in through the window when he   
could've come through the front door? Monica knew him; she'd   
dated Gary for nearly eight months."

"She also owed him money. Considering the threats he made in a   
couple of those letters we found, I doubt he'd have gotten a warm   
reception if he showed up on her doorstep."

"Okay, what about the simple fact that they'd previously been   
involved in a long-term relationship? He picked all the other   
victims outta a hat, strangers right off the street."

"Key word--previously. Gary and Monica had been split up for   
nearly a year. You know as well as I do that it's not unheard of for   
a guy like that to hit someone he already knows."

"The first time, maybe, or even the second, when he's learning his   
craft. But Gary had successfully whacked four other women,   
paisan'. He'd gotten good at it. Why would he risk gettin' caught by   
playin' in his own backyard?"

"He was pissed at her? Come on, Sal, how many times have we   
caught an UNSUB because he just plain screwed up? You know   
half of them subconsciously *want* to be caught."

"He didn't act like he wanted to be caught when he kept insisting   
he was innocent." Sal's eyes turned distant, haunted. "Or when he   
broke down in front of the judge and bawled like a baby."

"What did you expect--he'd just been handed a death sentence.   
Face the facts, Sal. We pulled several of Gary's fingerprints off   
the murder weapon. We found a shirt covered with Monica's blood   
stuffed into the back of his closet. The mode and execution of her   
death match that of the other women--the signature is nearly   
identical. And he was unable to produce a credible alibi for any of   
the nights in question. A jury of his peers found him guilty. Why   
can't you accept that?"

Sal ran a hand over his face, then propped his chin on his fist.   
"Because I looked into his eyes when he said he didn't do it. And I   
believe him."

Kyle stared at him a moment, then turned away, shaking his head.   
"I give up. I have to take a piss, then I'm out of here. If you're   
smart, you'll do the same."

"I just have to go through my email. I'm about a week behind." He   
opened his inbox, smirked. "Hey, McNally! Looks like I may be   
the lucky recipient of one of your dirty pictures."

Kyle flashed him the same finger he'd given Peterson and ambled   
down the hall to the bathroom. Still chuckling, Sal opened the   
email and began to read. 

And the smile froze on his lips.

"If you think you can just dump me like yesterday's trash, you'd   
better think again. I'm not a whore and I don't intend to be treated   
like one. I wonder how the lovely Mrs. Kyle McNally would feel   
about her husband if she knew he was screwing around? Maybe   
she'd like a copy of this?"

And beneath the text, a photo of Monica Mitchell clad in a red   
teddy, snuggled in Kyle McNally's arms.

"All right, go ahead. Let me have it." 

Sal nearly jumped out of his skin. He quickly clicked on a different   
email and pasted on a smile. "What a let down. It was a piece of   
the Whitecotten profile."

Kyle returned to his desk and began slipping files into his   
briefcase. "You always have had rotten luck."

Sal struggled not to squirm under McNally's smile, which suddenly   
felt sharp and cold. With trembling fingers, he forwarded the email   
to his home computer and closed his inbox. "Think I'll take your   
advice and go home. Vickie's had about enough of my late nights."

"Good idea. But you'd better return the Carmichael file to records   
on your way out. You know how they get."

"Yeah. Good idea." Sal logged off and gathered his own briefcase   
with unsteady hands. "See you tomorrow."

"I'll be here."

Kyle waited until Sal had disappeared into the elevator before   
moving to his chair, logging onto his computer, and opening the   
inbox. Being named ASAC had its advantages--including a master   
password to all the profilers' computers. He stared at the   
incriminating email for a long moment, face expressionless.

In three minutes the file had been erased and he was headed for the   
parking garage.

Thanks to a well-placed puncture, Sal's tire went flat on a dark   
stretch of road only ten minutes from his home. Intent on replacing   
it, at first he didn't see Kyle's truck bearing down on him. By the   
time he did, it was too late.

The growl of an engine, a blinding flash of light...

There were no witnesses.

 

Georgetown Medical  
12:44 a.m.

 

The emergency room doors imploded, shattering the fragile peace   
of what had been a slow night in the ER. Two EMTs, faces set in   
grim concentration, shepherded a gurney bearing a man whose   
gray-white skin contrasted sharply with the vivid crimson staining   
his clothing and their own. On their heels, her expression a blank   
mask of shock, a copper-haired woman trailed the procession,   
speechless amid the volley of shouted information and instructions.

"Forty-one-year-old male GSW. Sucking chest wound,   
right quadrant. BP 40 over palp; pulse 130 and thready.   
Respiration rapid and labored."

"Cyanotic, no breath sounds on the right. He's on O2 at 8 liters   
by mask, two IVs running D5LR wide open."

Doctors and nurses flooded the trauma room, taking over as the   
EMTs deposited their charge and got out of the way. Lost in the   
flurry of activity, the woman hovered just inside the doorway,   
fingers pressed to her lips.

"Get the lab on the horn, I need type and cross match for at least   
six units, stat; a full blood work-up. And get a portable   
chest x-ray in here." The doctor in charge, a woman with streaks of   
silver in her dark, close-cropped hair, barked orders like a drill   
sergeant. "He needs a chest tube. Jackson?"

"I'm on it."

"I'm not getting a pulse--we're losing him."

"Code blue! Connie, get her out of here."

She resisted the nurse's iron grip on her elbow, protest falling from   
her lips without conscious thought. "I'm Special Agent Dana   
Scully with the FBI, that man is my partner." And as a final trump   
card, "I'm a medical doctor."

The nurse, a stout black woman with a kind face, hustled her   
toward the waiting area. "Not here you aren't, honey. You sit right   
over there--someone will be with you shortly." She was gone   
before Scully could open her mouth to argue.

Scully stood beside a plastic chair, its backrest cracked and pitted,   
for several long minutes before her legs folded and she dropped   
heavily into it. The trembling began in her hands, spreading   
quickly up her arms and down her legs until she shivered   
uncontrollably. She felt oddly removed from her surroundings, as   
though she were viewing them from the end of a long, dark tunnel.   
Her only tethers to reality were the warm stickiness of Mulder's   
blood painting her hands and shirt and the terrifying barrier of the   
trauma room doors.

"Agent Scully?"

Skinner's voice jolted her out of her daze and onto her feet. She   
watched his eyes catalogue her bloodstained clothing, saw the   
flicker of dismay before they went studiously neutral. 

"I came as soon as I heard. How is he?"

"He took a bullet to...to the chest at close range. Massive blood   
loss...they won't let me...his heart stopped."

"Scully, sit down." 

Skinner guided her to the chair and promptly disappeared--or so it   
seemed. She couldn't drag her eyes from the trauma room doors to   
look for him. He was back a moment later with a blanket and a cup   
of coffee. 

"Drink some of this."

The blanket, draped across her shoulders, warmed her; the coffee,   
sweet and milky, eased the shakes. She sipped it slowly, one eye   
always on the motionless doors shielding Mulder from view.

"Scully, what happened?"

Her tongue felt clumsy, sluggish. "Didn't they tell you?"

"Let's just say I've heard conflicting reports. No one wants to   
assume the blame for this one."

Fury melted away the fog. "There is no conflict, sir. Agent   
Glassman failed to properly secure the suspect. He broke loose,   
grabbed Agent Glassman's weapon, and opened fire. Mulder never   
saw it coming." Her voice broke but she tipped her chin up, eyes   
dry.

"Agent Glassman is inexperienced. Some feel his partner should   
have..."

"Agent Glassman is a fool. Even the greenest rookie should know   
better than to..."

The trauma room doors burst open, discharging a rapidly moving   
gurney surrounded by ER personnel and equipment. Scully had   
thrust the coffee cup into Skinner's hands and was across the   
hallway before he could blink, squeezing between a doctor and a   
nurse to reach Mulder's side.

"How is he? Is he stable?"

"We're taking him up to surgery." The doctor, a young Asian man   
who looked fresh out of residency, held the elevator doors while   
Mulder was wheeled inside. Scully caught a brief glimpse of his   
pale, still face before the doors began to close. "Dr. Stanton will   
answer all your questions."

She stared stupidly at the elevator for a moment, then turned on her   
heel, nearly colliding with Skinner and the dark-haired doctor who   
had been spouting orders in the trauma room.

"Agent Scully? I'm Dr. Alice Stanton; I treated your partner."

Scully squared her shoulders and accepted the doctor's outstretched   
hand. "Dr. Stanton. This is Assistant Director Skinner, our   
supervisor. What is Agent Mulder's condition?"

Dr. Stanton gestured toward the waiting area. "Let's sit down."   
When they had each claimed an equally uncomfortable chair, she   
steepled her fingers and continued. "The bullet passed through the   
right side of Agent Mulder's chest, causing a dangerous condition   
known as a hemopneumothorax." 

She paused and cocked an eyebrow at Scully. "Did I hear you say   
you're a medical doctor?"

"My specialty is pathology, but I'm quite familiar with the term."

"I'm not," Skinner inserted dryly. "What exactly is a hemo--?"

"Hemopneumothorax. To put it simply, when the bullet passed   
through Agent Mulder it allowed air to be drawn into the chest   
cavity, destroying the negative pressure that allows the lungs to   
automatically expand and inflate. This trapped air, as well as the   
internal bleeding, not only caused Agent Mulder's right lung to   
collapse, but his heart to stop beating."

"But you got him back." Scully's voice trembled.

Skinner cast a sharp, assessing glance at her.

"Yes. However, he was down for nearly three minutes before we   
did. I won't lie to you, Agent Scully. It was a very close call." Dr.   
Stanton massaged the back of her neck. "We put in a chest tube   
and got him stable enough to send him upstairs. They'll repair the   
tissue damage, debride the wound, suture the chest tube in place..." 

"Dr. Stanton, what is Agent Mulder's condition--really?"

"If you're asking whether he's out of danger, I'd have to say no. But   
he's young and strong--obviously a fighter. If he can make it   
through the surgery and avoid any serious post-op infections... I   
think he has an excellent chance."

Scully pressed the back of her hand to her lips, her tightly closed   
eyes unable to disguise the sparkle on her lashes. She drew a slow,   
calming breath, then mustered a weak smile.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. If I were you, I'd grab a cup of coffee from the   
cafeteria before you head upstairs. You're in for a long wait."

Scully nodded, watching the doctor walk toward the nurses'   
station. She could feel Skinner's eyes on her, evaluating the   
uncharacteristic display of emotion, and tried to shore up her   
defenses.

"Thank you for coming down here, sir, but you really don't need to   
stay. I'll be fine."

Skinner took the hint. He stood, looking down at her briefly before   
speaking. "I know you will, Scully. And so will he." He started to   
walk away, hesitated. "If you need anything..."

"I will."

She held on until he was gone--just. The tears--a mixture of fear,   
anger, and relief--left her feeling both utterly spent and strangely at   
peace. She shed her bloody trenchcoat, washed her face, and   
collected a coffee before heading upstairs. 

Mulder was alive. For now, it was enough.

************  
ACT I  
************

Georgetown  
Five weeks later  
2:36 a.m.

 

**He crouches beside the crippled car, cursing under his breath at   
the last, stubborn lug nut that refuses to give. The wrench clangs   
against the asphalt and he pops sore fingers into his mouth in a   
vain attempt to soothe them. A gust of wind stirs the branches of   
the large oak tree and a wisp of cloud veils the sliver of moon,   
turning poor visibility worse.

He eyes the wrench distastefully; pulls out his cell phone instead.

"Vickie? You were right, cara mia, I should've called a tow   
truck...Okay, okay--no need to rub it in. Just come get me and I'll   
call someone from the house...You be careful, too. The road is   
tricky in the dark...Yeah, I'll be the good looking guy by the dead   
Mazda."

He chuckles quietly as he pockets the phone, warmed by the sound   
of her voice. She's someone he can count on, now more than ever.   
He closes his eyes, gut twisting, an image of betrayal burned on his   
retinas.

How could you? he asks the moon, the sky. Why would you?

He snatches up the wrench, throwing his entire body weight behind   
the motion of his arms. The nut wiggles, then slowly begins to turn.   
Elated, it takes him a moment to register the light splashing across   
his back and spilling onto the ground around him. He glances over   
his shoulder at the approaching vehicle, frowning when its engine   
kicks up from a hum to a roar.

Dropping the wrench, he stands, one hand shading his eyes against   
the glare. The car is moving much faster than the posted limit--not   
unusual for this deserted stretch of road. He steps back, well onto   
the road's shoulder.

His mouth literally drops open with shock when he recognizes the   
approaching vehicle. How many times has he ridden shotgun in   
that truck, out for a beer after work or to celebrate the successful   
close of a case? His feet unconsciously drift several steps forward,   
his hand lifting in an automatic wave.

Until the truck veers sharply to the right, homing in on him like a   
beacon. Too late, he understands, but his feet won't cooperate,   
tangling together in his panicked flight from the blinding lights...**

"NOOOO!"

"Mulder. Mulder, wake up."

Hands--one cupping the back of his neck, the other stroking up and   
down his left arm. Mulder blinked, sweat stinging his eyes and   
trickling between his shoulder blades, his gaze darting around the   
darkened bedroom. He was unable to suppress a shudder when the   
bright glow of a streetlight momentarily brought his fading dream   
back into sharp relief.

"I'm all right."

"Sure you are. That's why your heart is banging like the drums in   
that band Langly loves."

He deliberately slowed his breathing and mustered a smirk. "An   
unavoidable side effect of sharing a bed with a beautiful woman."

Her hand slid down his arm and gently pried the sheet from his   
clenched fist, her fingers twining with his. "Nice try. Want to tell   
me about it?"

"You asking me to talk dirty to you, Scully?"

"Mulder."

He flopped onto his back, drawing her down and tucking her head   
beneath his chin. "No. I do not want to talk about it."

"Do you realize how long it's been since you slept through the   
night? Mulder, if you're not comfortable sharing this with me, then   
maybe someone at the Bureau, in the EAP..."

He made a disgusted sound, something between a groan and a   
snort. "Thanks, but no thanks. Scully, I'm a chronic insomniac and   
I've been coping with nightmares since I was a kid. There's no need   
to make a mountain out of a molehill."

"This is different, and you know it. It's the same dream every night,   
and it began after the shooting." Scully propped her head on one   
hand, tracing the puckered red scar beneath his right nipple with   
her index finger. "Mulder, your heart stopped. You were...dead for   
nearly three minutes before they managed to get you back. It's not   
unusual, in the face of that kind of trauma..."

"The only trauma I'm experiencing right now is the fear that I'll die   
from terminal boredom before they let me come back to work."   
When she simply stared at him, a small line of disapproval marring   
her pale forehead, he sighed. "Scully, you worry too much. You   
know, all things considered, I think I'm the one who got off easy   
this time. I just lay there and bled--you had to watch."

"That's not funny." But the rebuke was soft, and her voice   
wavered.

Mulder reached up and threaded his fingers into her hair, his thumb   
brushing back and forth across her cheek. "I know. I'm only   
saying... I'm all right, Scully. You think I'm still experiencing   
aftershocks from that night, but maybe you're the one who needs to   
let go."

Scully covered the hand cradling her face, eyes over-bright.   
"There've been so many close calls over the years... I don't want to   
consider how often I've watched your life hang by a thread. But it's   
different now. Harder."

"Harder? Because we're...together?"

A barely perceptible nod, teeth worrying her lip. "Not because it   
hurts more. But because I can't...compartmentalize the pain."

Though his eyes revealed only empathy, one corner of Mulder's   
mouth twitched. The small line between Scully's brows deepened.   
"You think that's funny? Mulder, I practically fell to pieces in front   
of Skinner! If he didn't suspect anything before, he sure as hell   
should now."

"I don't think it's funny. I think--I *know* you went through hell that   
night, Scully. It's just... I personally have never been very good at   
what you call 'compartmentalizing.' If we follow your logic,   
Skinner would have been convinced we were doing it like bunnies   
as far back as your abduction."

It worked. She struggled to hold onto outrage for a moment, lips   
quivering, until a giggle slipped past her defenses. Ducking her   
head, face buried in his neck, she snickered helplessly.

"Oh, God. I'm remembering all the times I told him I'd cover your   
back. Gives the term a whole new meaning, don't you th--"

A giggling Scully was both rare and irresistible. Mulder silenced   
her laughter with a long kiss, then touched his forehead to hers. He   
pitched his voice low, husky. "Speaking of doing it like bunnies..." 

Scully shivered when his lips grazed her neck. "I have to be at   
work in five hours, Mulder."

"No problem." His teeth found the spot just behind her left ear, the   
one that turned her into a puddle of goo. "What I've got in mind   
won't take nearly that long..."

 

Georgetown  
Next day  
1:32 p.m.

 

"You know, SCREW you! We're done!" Words spat out in a fit of   
anger. 

"Okay. Let's meet her." With one arm thrown wide in a gesture of   
showmanship, the talk show host introduced his next guest. 

A loud round of applause, cheering, and whistling as "she" turned   
out to be a "he."

"Heeey, howya doin', Jairry? Hi, Jairry. Listen. Jairry,  
I'm here to let you know that Chuck is not gonna be wit' her no   
more. He's comin' home with ME, child."

"JERRY! JERRY! JERRY!"

Click.

Mulder tossed the remote onto the coffee table, lips curling in   
disgust. If he had to sit through one more minute of daytime   
television, he would not be held responsible for his actions.

Flopping against the back of the couch, he scrubbed at his face,   
hands scraping roughly along his unshaven jaw. He lifted his right   
arm and took a sniff, wincing as he imagined Scully's reaction   
when she came home from work to find him still sitting there,   
unwashed and brain-dead. 

He leaned forward, both arms resting on his knees, and cast a   
guilty eye around the living room. Not only did he smell like a   
pig, he was living like one too. Sighing heavily, Mulder pushed   
himself to his feet, swaying slightly when the sudden change in   
position sent the blood rushing straight from his head to his feet. 

For five weeks he'd done nothing more strenuous than dress and   
feed himself--oh, and suffer through those torture sessions   
disguised as physical therapy--yet he felt as if he'd just run a   
marathon. The less he did, the less he felt like doing. If he didn't   
snap out of it soon, no amount of arguing, cajoling or sweet-talking   
on his part would stop Scully from packing him off to a Bureau   
counselor quicker than you could say "psychoanalysis."

Guarding the right side of his chest with his left hand, Mulder drew   
in a deep breath and it out slowly. He shuffled toward the   
bedroom, collecting his carelessly discarded sweatshirt from the   
back of the couch, his sneakers from under the coffee table, and the   
latest issue of "Eye Spy"--courtesy of Langly--from where it had   
fallen down beside the couch. On his way back, he gathered up   
several items of crockery and glassware that were currently   
decorating Scully's apartment like cheap china ornaments.

Depositing the dirty cups and plates into the sink, Mulder padded   
out of the kitchen and headed for the bathroom. 

He studied his face in the mirror, smearing shaving cream over his   
jaw and cheeks. Still pale, he'd yet to regain the weight lost   
following surgery and an extended hospital stay. It had been close   
this time. He knew that. When first released from the hospital,   
he'd wondered if he'd ever get back to feeling normal again.   
Weakness had consumed him from head to toe, so crippling he'd   
had to depend on Scully for even his most basic needs in those first   
few days of freedom.

Now that he was up and about again, he desperately wanted to   
work. To forget range-of-motion exercises and sink his teeth into   
an X-File. All attempts to bypass Scully's Nazi-like supervision,   
however, had been thwarted by his physical therapist, who had   
steadfastly refused to sign the forms allowing him to regain field   
agent status. During his last session, she'd grudgingly agreed that   
he could resume limited desk duty in a week. Not until he could   
prove without doubt that he was pain-free and had regained his   
prior strength and stamina would he be allowed in the field. 

Mulder skillfully worked the razor through a mask of shaving   
cream, leaving a path of baby-smooth skin in its wake. The   
instinct of performing a task by rote took over. He let his mind   
wander as he gazed vacantly into the mirror, watching his face   
shift and shimmer out of focus, colors blending together, his   
features morphing like reflections in a funhouse mirror. Until, for a   
second, the man looking back at him ceased to resemble himself. 

"What the...?"

His hand jerked, the razor slicing skin as it slipped through his   
fingers. Spinning as if in slow motion, it hit the basin with a loud   
clatter, splattering little globules of shaving cream on the tiles and   
floor. Mulder thrust his chin forward, fingers pressed over the now   
bleeding cut, stopping mere inches from the glass. No sign of the   
stranger who had momentarily taken his place. Heart thumping in   
his chest, he reached out a trembling hand and tentatively ran his   
index finger over the mirror. Cool. Smooth. Normal. No bumps,   
wrinkles, or cracks. Nothing to account for what he'd just seen. 

Huffing quietly to himself, but still eyeing the mirror suspiciously,   
he figured that maybe Scully was right. Maybe the nightmares   
were getting to him. 

He shook his head, attempting to clear the image stubbornly   
imprinted on his mind--a dark-haired man with olive skin and   
intense black eyes staring back at him. He was quite certain the   
man was no one he knew, yet...disquietingly familiar.

Picking up the razor, Mulder finished his shave with quick, well-  
practiced strokes. He rinsed the blade, left it on the sink, and   
ambled over to the shower, peeling off his sweat-stained undershirt   
as he went. 

Once under the spray, Mulder leaned against the tile, one hand   
held protectively across his chest to cover healing, still-sensitive   
skin. He focused his mind on how good the hot water felt beating   
down on tired, tight muscles and effectively shoved the stranger   
from his thoughts. 

After donning jeans and a clean sweatshirt, he pulled on his   
sneakers and tied the laces. He needed to get out for awhile. Clear   
his head. Being cooped up in the apartment was making him stir-  
crazy--no wonder he was seeing things. Maybe he'd go to the   
grocery store, buy something for dinner. He smiled to himself as   
images of Scully walking through the door to a home-cooked meal   
flashed through his mind. Scooping up his car keys with one hand   
and grabbing his leather jacket from the coat tree with the other, he   
headed out the door.

Mulder pulled the car into the stream of traffic, mentally ticking   
off possible dinner menus. The first time he'd made dinner for   
them both, Scully had been convinced he'd paid someone else to   
cook it. He had carefully explained to her that just because he   
chose not to cook didn't mean he was incapable, feigning   
indignation when she'd demanded to see evidence of his endeavor.   
And why should he have expected anything less? Scully practically   
wore the motto "seeing is believing" tattooed on her forehead.

He laughed quietly as he recalled her reaction to the mountain of   
saucepans and dishes precariously stacked in and around the   
kitchen sink. Standing by his refrigerator, cheeks pink, her mouth   
opened and closed as she struggled to form an apology. After that   
night, she'd never doubted his culinary prowess again. 

Mulder stopped at an intersection, left turn signal blinking   
insistently. He watched the flow of cars, vans, and trucks without   
really seeing them, fingers lightly tapping the steering wheel to the   
beat of the Rolling Stones while he waited for the light to change. 

When red turned to green, giving him the all clear, Mulder gently   
depressed the gas pedal and the car eased forward. A brightly-  
colored blur; the high-pitched screech of tires. Mulder slammed   
on the brakes, narrowly missing the small yellow convertible that   
swerved, then plowed on through the intersection. A group of   
rowdy teenagers waved their hands in the air and whooped in   
delight as they ran the red light.

Heart hammering in his chest, Mulder ran trembling fingers   
through his hair. Squealing tires. Bright lights. The roar of an   
engine. A truck bearing down... Hazel eyes grew wide, then   
narrowed. Pupils dilated, leaving just a tiny ring of green at the   
edges.

Mulder stared ahead, unblinking, face bland yet strangely focused.   
Oblivious to the horns blaring behind him.

With steady, controlled hands, he gripped the steering wheel,   
flicking the indicator off with one finger. Taking a deep breath, he   
pressed the gas pedal and the car lurched forward. Instead of   
making the left turn that would take him to the Qwick Mart,   
however, he drove straight ahead toward Connecticut Avenue,   
following the signs to Route 185 just outside the city limits.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  
ACT II  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

4424 Eagle Court   
Chevy Chase MD  
4:13 p.m.

 

Suburbia yawned out before him, conservative and predictable.   
Condominiums and townhouses stood tall and uniform along a   
quiet, tree-lined street. Leaves fluttered gently into the gutter.   
They rolled and danced along the sidewalk, covering lawns and   
flowerbeds with a layer of brown and gold.

On any other day, he might have appreciated the subtle beauty, the   
warm, secure feeling of living in a close-knit neighborhood.   
Invitations to barbecues and summer picnics; children running   
barefoot and laughing; kicking soccer balls and shooting hoops. 

But not today. Not here. 

His stomach twisted, tight and painful, lips pressing into a thin,   
hard line. How could he have been so blind? Why? The question   
hounded him, but there was no logical answer. The man had been   
his friend, his paisano. Was he really such a poor judge of   
character? 

Welcomed into his home, they had shared pasta and beer, laughed   
together as they retold anecdotes about their fellow agents.  
Entertained each other with stories of miraculous solve rates and   
exaggerated acts of heroism where they were always the stars. 

He hadn't wanted to believe it. Felt sure there must be another   
explanation. But now, there was no denying the truth.   
Reaffirming his resolve to set things right, he pushed the car faster,   
no longer idly contemplating life in the suburbs and a friendship he   
now knew to be a lie. Ignoring the buildings around him, he   
steered the car down a familiar side street, toward a house he had   
come to know like the back of his hand.

The car coasted to a stop beside the curb. 

Across from an unfamiliar building. 

In the middle of an unfamiliar neighborhood.

Mulder leaned his head back against the headrest, pushing the   
heels of both hands into tired, burning eyes. His head pounded as   
he tried to think through the situation. Where the hell was he?   
And more to the point, how did he get here?

Swiveling his head to the right, brow creased in confusion, he   
stared at the two-story duplex outside the window. A strong feeling   
of deja vu sent tingling fingers of ice running over his body. He   
shivered. The building seemed familiar somehow, but the feelings   
it stirred up left a queasy sense of foreboding in his stomach.

Deciding that offense was the best form of defense, Mulder tugged   
on the handle and shouldered the car door open. He stood on the   
pavement, hand shielding his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun. A   
short, cement path bridged the distance between sidewalk and front   
door. A white rattan chair sat on a small porch to the left of the   
door, and a pot bearing the remains of a dry, shriveled geranium   
stood to the right.

He sidestepped a tired-looking "For Sale" sign embedded in the   
front yard, the tiny thatch of weeds huddled close to its wooden   
post bearing witness that the house had been on the market for   
some time. 

Wiping a small cobweb from the doorbell, he firmly pressed the   
button, ears tuned for the sound of approaching footsteps. But,   
other than the bell's hollow chime, there was silence. Already   
formulating his next plan of action, Mulder rapped loudly on the   
wooden door, just to be certain the house was empty. 

A few minutes later, puffing slightly from the effort of climbing   
the side fence, Mulder stood at the kitchen window, hands framing   
his face as he pressed his nose against the dusty pane of glass. A   
small gap in the curtains revealed empty shelves and counters,   
devoid of the usual paraphernalia that would normally accompany   
a thriving household. By craning his neck slightly to the left,   
Mulder was able to get a limited view of the living room. Stark   
and empty. No furniture anywhere to be seen.

He puffed a small sigh of relief. There was time to take a good   
look around without fear of discovery. A tall, wood fence on the   
eastern side of the unit sheltered him from nosy neighbors.

As he made his way around back, he found only chain-link fencing   
between the house and its attached neighbor. Muttering quietly   
under his breath about lack of privacy, he decided to go for broke.   
Taking a quick glance over the fence, he strode confidently up to   
the back door and jiggled the knob. 

Locked. Well, what had he expected?

Stepping back he peered up at the second story windows. All   
shuttered against the world with tightly drawn curtains. 

About ready to admit defeat, Mulder hesitated, then dropped to his   
haunches when a quick flicker of yellow drew his attention.   
Caught amongst a tangle of overgrown dandelions was a ten-inch   
length of plastic, flapping uselessly in the gentle breeze. Mulder   
immediately recognized it for what it was.

A torn strip of yellow and black tape, used for cordoning off crime   
scenes.

Dread pierced him and bile rose in his throat. He pursed his lips   
together and swallowed hard, fighting back the inexplicable   
nausea.

Pulling the errant piece of thin plastic free, Mulder rolled it up and   
shoved it into his pocket. He wasn't even sure why; just had a   
feeling it was important.

"Excuse me?"

Mulder shot to his feet and spun around, feeling like a teenager   
caught soaping windows. A young woman stood at the chain-link   
fence, brown hair caught into a ponytail and a baby propped on her   
hip. 

"Can I help you--sir?" The last was an afterthought, dripping with   
suspicion.

Mulder crossed the yard, rubbing his palms against his jeans to   
remove the grit. He pasted on his most winsome smile and   
extended his hand.

"Hello. I'm..." For an instant it was as if his brain locked, and he   
fumbled awkwardly for his own name. "...Fox Mulder."

She studied the hand, then his face with narrowed eyes. "Well, Mr.   
Mulder, I can't help wondering why you've been prowling around   
that house like a cat sizing up its next meal."

He chuffed softly, abruptly conscious of his worn blue jeans and   
leather jacket. "It's not the way it might appear. I'm an FBI agent."

She shifted the squirming baby to the other hip, one eyebrow   
executing an amazing Scully imitation. "Well, at least you're   
creative. I have to admit, I've never heard THAT one before."

Mulder opened his mouth to protest; settled for producing his ID   
instead. She leaned in close, eyes darting between the picture and   
his face, then nodded. 

"I'm sorry about that," she said, in a tone that was anything but.   
"After all the goings on over the past year, I've learned you can't be   
too careful--just too trusting."

"Perfectly understandable, Ms..."

"Gilmore. Wendy Gilmore. Do you mind telling my why you're   
here? I mean, I just assumed once they convicted Monica's killer   
we wouldn't be seeing the police anymore. The house has been on   
the market for nearly three months."

"Well...you're correct, actually. I was just...ah...checking that we'd   
cleared the scene. Good thing I did." Mulder pulled the piece of   
yellow crime tape from his pocket. "Not exactly the best   
advertisement for selling a house."

"At this point I'd be willing to try anything." Wendy pried the end   
of her ponytail from the baby's fist. "It's been kind of eerie seeing   
the place stand empty. Just another reminder of Monica's death."   
She frowned. "I don't remember seeing you when the other agents   
questioned me."

"I came late to the party." Mulder pressed on when her eyes   
darkened at the flip choice of words. "I really don't know much   
about the case. You said she was murdered?"

Wendy clutched the baby closer to her breast, brushing her lips   
across his downy head. "She was stabbed--with her own kitchen   
knife. How creepy is that?" She swallowed hard. "She didn't   
deserve to die that way. She had everything going for her--beauty,   
brains..."

"Sounds like you thought highly of her."

Wendy huffed, amused. "Agent Mulder, I love my family. But   
lately the highlight of my day is sharing a dinner of Hamburger   
Helper with my husband. Sometimes I even get to sit down." As if   
to illustrate her point, the baby emitted a throaty whine and kicked   
his chubby legs.

"Monica Mitchell had a high-paying job, an exciting social life,   
and a body that most of us can only dream of. Let's just say I got a   
vicarious thrill listening to her talk."

Mulder's smile felt forced. A vague, intangible disquiet had taken   
root somewhere in his chest from the moment Wendy began   
discussing her neighbor's murder. An extension of the overall   
"wrongness" he'd felt since inexplicably finding himself at a crime   
scene instead of the grocery store.

"At least they caught the guy who did it," he said, glancing over   
his shoulder when a sudden gust of wind rattled a shutter. "It may   
be too late for your neighbor, but he won't be able to hurt anyone   
else."

Wendy's gaze turned distant and she slowly shook her head. "I   
suppose. It's just...I never would have thought him capable of such   
a thing, you know?"

"Excuse me?"

"Monica's ex. I met the guy, talked to him several times, and he   
seemed real nice. Not that I'm naÔve enough to think he'd have the   
word "killer" tattooed on his forehead, but I guess I thought I was a   
better judge of character."

"Her ex-husband was the killer?" 

It was more a verbal expression of his surprise than a question, and   
Mulder momentarily forgot his audience. Wendy's eyes clouded   
with suspicion and her voice cooled ten degrees.

"Not husband. Boyfriend. And he didn't just kill Monica; there   
were four other women, too. For someone who's supposedly   
involved in the case, you sure don't know much. Don't they work   
with you new guys--bring you up to speed?"

"I'm kind of an independent, 'hands on' learner."

She squinted at him as if gauging his sincerity. "What happened to   
that other agent--the one who asked me all the questions? You   
should talk to him." When Mulder hesitated, searching for a   
response, she continued impatiently. "You know--the Italian guy.   
Sam...no, Sal. He said his name was Sal something."

She removed her hair from the baby's fist yet again, this time   
provoking an ear-splitting wail. Struggling to retain her grip on the   
now wriggling, flailing child, she moved away from the fence. 

"I have to go. Jack needs a bottle and my husband should be home   
any minute. But I guess you'll be leaving now anyway, won't you,   
Agent Mulder?"

Mulder's lips twitched at the less than subtle message beneath the   
innocent question. "Yes, I will. Thank you for your time, Ms.   
Gilmore. You've been very helpful."

She backed toward the house with a shake of her head. "If you   
don't mind me saying so, Agent Mulder, you really ought to do   
your homework next time you get a new case. They're never going   
to trust you with a real investigation if you don't know what's   
going on."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Mulder watched her until she disappeared into the house, then   
walked slowly back to his car. He slid behind the wheel and   
plugged the key into the ignition, yet made no attempt to start the   
engine. Instead he stared at the vacant house, thinking about   
Monica Mitchell and wondering why the death of a stranger left   
him feeling so unsettled and confused. He scrubbed at the   
throbbing behind his right eye, abruptly exhausted.

Still eyeing the house, he turned the key. With a sigh, he grasped   
the gear shift, nearly groaning aloud when his gaze caught the   
LED display on the dash.

5:34.

Scully would be home by now, wondering where he'd gone, why   
her apartment looked like a landfill, and what was for dinner.

He was a dead man.

Putting the car into drive and Monica Mitchell out of his mind, he   
hit the gas and headed home.

 

Georgetown  
5:32 p.m.

"Mulder?"

Scully nudged the door shut and slipped her keys back into her   
pocket. Shadows bathed the apartment and the television stood   
mute. She moved quietly down the hallway to the bedroom, half   
expecting to find him draped across the mattress, asleep. Despite   
his incessant moaning and groaning about returning to work,   
Mulder had yet to regain his stamina. The legendary insomniac   
was now known to nod off before 9:00, and often napped during   
the day.

The nightmares weren't helping.

She paused in the doorway to the bedroom, a frown creasing her   
brow. Empty. He'd obviously gone out--but where? He'd known   
she would be home early tonight, had made several lewd   
suggestions regarding an "appetizer" before dinner. She was a bit   
embarrassed to realize just how eagerly she'd anticipated the   
possibilities on the drive home.

Sighing, she put away her briefcase and changed into jeans and an   
oversized sweatshirt. Shoving the sleeves to her elbows, she then   
made a circuit through the apartment, collecting dirty glasses and   
sunflower seed husks. Once in the kitchen, she added her findings   
to those already in the sink, filled it with hot, soapy water and left   
everything to soak while she raided the cupboards for dinner fare.

After several minutes both her temper and her patience had run   
out, and she phoned for a pizza. Vegetarian, extra mushrooms.   
That'd teach him.

She curled up on the couch with a trashy romance novel in a   
hopeless attempt to soothe herself. Instead, her gaze constantly   
wandered to the clock and the restless tingle in her stomach   
intensified.

It was ridiculous to worry about him--absurd. He was a grown   
man, perfectly able to take care of himself. The surgical scar had   
faded from angry red to pale pink, injured tissues and muscle   
successfully knitted together. The pain, once crippling in its   
intensity, had faded to an occasional twinge, though he'd formed   
the unconscious habit of guarding the right side of his chest with   
one hand. And even if he'd yet to recover his optimal weight and   
muscle tone, he'd come a long way from those first weeks after the   
shooting, when all his clothes seemed a size too large and his jeans   
rode low on bony hips.

Mulder was right--she had to let go of her own fears regarding this   
brush with death. But it was so much easier said than done. She   
vividly recalled his first day home from the hospital, when simply   
getting him to the bathroom had been a major ordeal. Forced to   
accept her support while he relieved himself, he'd wept from the   
pain and embarrassment, too weak to control his emotions. She'd   
tucked him into her bed and held him until he slept, murmuring   
over and over that he was alive and she loved him. That everything   
else was incidental to those truths.

Realizing she'd read the same paragraph three times, Scully   
checked the clock. 6:09. If he wasn't home in twenty minutes...

Footsteps, the jingle of keys, and the door swung slowly open.   
Mulder slipped in, saw her on the couch, and managed a weak   
smile.

"Hey, Scully. You did get home early. Reading, huh? Is that a   
good book?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, too irritated to let him see her   
amusement. Everything about Mulder screamed guilt--from the   
hunched shoulders and babbled greeting to his complete failure to   
harass her about her choice of reading material. It was pitiful,   
really. She ought to be kind and go easy on him.

As if.

"Where are they, Mulder?"

His face went blank. "What?"

"Where are the groceries? That's why you're late, isn't it? Because   
you were out getting groceries for the gourmet meal you're going   
to cook for me?"

The emotion that darkened his expressive features was strong,   
brief, and not at all what she'd expected. Guilt, yes, but mixed with   
confusion and something that looked like...fear.

"I'm sorry, Scully. I know it sounds lame, but I really did intend to   
make you dinner. I just...I lost track of time."

He moved toward her as he spoke, peeling off the leather jacket   
and laying it on a chair. When his face hit the light from the   
reading lamp she saw lines around his eyes and the corners of his   
mouth--unmistakable signals of pain and fatigue.

It doused the remainder of her anger like a bucket of cold water.   
She set aside the book and reached her hand toward him. "Mulder,   
come here and sit down. Are you all right? Are you in pain?"

He came willingly, sinking into the cushions with a soft grunt, one   
hand pressed to his chest. "I'm okay, it's just a headache. I...I took a   
drive and wound up going farther than I intended. I'm sorry if I   
worried you."

No impatience with her concern? No jibe to stop mothering him?   
Scully frowned but said nothing, tugging him down until   
his head rested in her lap, long legs stretched the length of the   
couch. She gently massaged her fingers through his hair,   
concentrating on the area around his temples. Mulder sighed like a   
weary child and turned his face into the soft fabric of her   
sweatshirt, one arm slipping around her waist.

"Sorry, Scully. Was gonna make dinner. Got sidetracked."

Short, mumbled phrases and heavy eyelids. He was drifting off   
already.

"You have to pace yourself, Mulder. No matter how good you feel,   
you can't go running around like nothing happened; you'll only set   
back your recovery."

"Didn't mean to. Went to the store. Don't know how...how I got..."   
The words trailed off into slow, deep breaths and he grew heavier   
in her arms.

Scully continued to absent-mindedly thread her fingers through his   
hair while she attempted to rationalize the tingling disquiet his   
words provoked. After several minutes, when it appeared Mulder   
was truly down for the count, she extracted herself from his   
embrace and returned to the kitchen to wash dishes. 

The sink emptied, the pizza man came and went, and Mulder slept   
on. All hopes for romance relinquished, Scully had plopped two   
slices of pizza on paper plates and was pouring drinks when the   
first soft sounds of distress drifted in from the living room.

Another nightmare.

She braced her palms on the counter, fighting the rising tide of   
frustration and weariness that threatened to overwhelm her. As   
distressing as the chronic nightmares were for Mulder, they were   
fast becoming hazardous to her own mental health. Reserves   
depleted from five weeks spent nurturing the man back to health--  
sometimes kicking and screaming--she found it increasingly   
difficult to be cast in the roll of therapist as well as doctor, lover,   
and occasional babysitter.

Another soft moan and the sound of thrashing limbs put her in   
motion. Mulder was huddled in the corner of the couch, wide eyes   
staring through her at whatever personal hell his mind had   
conjured. He was muttering something, but so low and garbled she   
could barely make it out.

"...my friend...trusted, I...no...NOOO! Vickie! Vickieeeee!"

The name ended in a sharp cry and he doubled over, one hand   
pressed to his chest as he struggled for breath.

Scully sprinted the last few steps to the couch, heart pounding.   
Mulder's behavior--the hand clutching his chest, the frantic gasps   
for air--was eerily reminiscent of the moments after the shooting.   
She squeezed onto the cushions, facing him, and laid one hand on   
his leg.

"Mulder. Mulder, are you all right? Talk to me."

He lifted his head just enough for her to make out features   
contorted in pain. "Hurts...can't...can't breathe...Vickie...help me."

Vickie? Who the hell was Vickie?

Scully grasped his chin but was unable to make his glazed eyes   
focus on her own. Stunned, for a moment all she could do was   
watch him pant and shiver.

He was still asleep.

Breaking out of her daze, she cupped his face between both palms   
and resorted to her rarely-used Skinner voice. "Mulder! Wake up,   
you're dreaming."

His entire body jerked as if zapped with live current and he   
blinked, eyes clear but confused. She watched, astonished, as his   
respiration immediately dropped to normal and he slowly uncurled,   
hands coming up to tug hers from his cheeks.

"Scully? What's the matter? Where...?"

"You were having a nightmare. Do you remember?"

Comprehension, and for an instant his open, unguarded expression   
revealed fear. Then his gaze slid away to the window and she   
could practically hear the bricks sliding into place as the walls   
came up.

"It's pretty fuzzy."

Something inside her snapped and she abruptly became furious.   
She yanked her hands from his and stood, eyes like flint.

"Don't you dare hold out on me. In case you haven't noticed, this   
isn't just a partnership anymore, Mulder--it's a relationship. That   
bullet tore my life apart as surely as it did yours, and I'll be damned   
if I'm going to let you treat me as if I've somehow got less invested   
in your recovery."

"Scully, it's not a big deal. I just..."

She'd turned her back and walked halfway across the room before   
he called out, voice breaking, "If I don't understand what the hell is   
happening to me, how can I explain it to you?"

She turned; studied his face. Fear. Anger. Devastating   
vulnerability.

"Who's Vickie?"

His complete bewilderment could not have been feigned. "Vickie?   
I don't know a Vickie."

Scully retraced her steps; sank down beside him on the couch.   
"You called for her during your nightmare, Mulder. Begged her to   
help you. You sounded terrified."

"Scully, I don't know anyone named Vickie. You're the only one   
I'd call for help."

"What was the dream about?"

Shoulder companionably nestled into his side, she clearly felt him   
stiffen. "Same thing it's always about. My death."

Shocked, she leaned forward to peer into his eyes. "You're   
dreaming about the shooting? Mulder, why haven't you said   
anything? You need to talk to someone, to..."

"Not the shooting." His voice was biting.

"Then what?"

A long pause. "I'm on a deserted road, changing a tire. It's dark.   
I...I think..."

She took his hand, wriggling her warm fingers between his cool   
ones. "Go on."

"There's bright lights...an engine. I think...I think I get hit by a car."

Scully tightened her grip, considering. "It's not as odd as it might   
seem, Mulder. Gunshot or car, it still points back to extreme   
trauma. Your mind has just chosen a different image to..."

"There's more to it than that."

"More? How?"

He chewed on his lip, shifting uneasily. "I'm... There's this feeling   
of anger, of betrayal. When the lights come, I..." He turned his face   
to the window.

Scully waited. When he didn't continue, she touched his cheek,   
gently redirecting his gaze to her face. "When the lights come...?"

"I think...I think it's someone I know."

"You mean it's deliberate?"

His gaze dropped to their joined hands, but she saw the admission   
in his eyes. 

"Mulder..."

"Scully, I already know what you're going to say. You're going to   
tell me that these dreams are an extension of my feelings of   
helplessness during the shooting. That I need to get some therapy,   
talk to a shrink."

"You're very perceptive."

"But it's not that simple! I'm a psychologist; I know all about   
repressed trauma, PTSD, and this isn't it."

"How can you say that?"

"Because in my dream I'm not even me!"

Silence. Mulder flushed, releasing her hand and standing up. "I've   
got a killer headache. I'm going to get some aspirin."

"Mulder, what did you mean, 'I'm not even me'?"

He ran an unsteady hand down the side of his face, reasserting   
control. "Nothing. I don't know what I'm saying. Scully, I really   
don't want to talk about this any more. I'm going to find those   
aspirin, and then we can have dinner. I smell pizza, don't I?"

"Mulder..."

But he was gone, and a moment later she heard the bathroom door   
close. Shutting him off from her as firmly and decisively as his   
words. 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
ACT III  
~~~~~~~~~~~

Quantico  
10:02 a.m.

 

"Can I help you, sir?"

Mulder flipped his ID open and held it up for the guard to see.   
"Special Agent Mulder. I'm here to collect some casefiles."

"Yes sir." The man disappeared inside the guardhouse and   
returned with a clipboard and a visitor's pass. "Sign here." 

Mulder scrawled his signature and pinned the pass onto his jacket.   
The guard checked to see if the signature on his ID matched the   
one in front of him. Deciding all was in order, he raised the boom   
gate and waved Mulder through. "Have a nice day."

He drove toward the honey-colored building, its architecture more   
akin to a five-star hotel than an academy that taught both green   
recruits and seasoned agents how to catch serial killers, rapists and   
kidnappers. Mulder ignored the various items of military   
paraphernalia lining the road, his thoughts centered on his yet-to-  
be-resolved argument with Scully. Strained silence and small talk   
had dominated breakfast, a poor cover-up for the real issues being   
sidestepped. He knew his refusal to discuss his dream both   
hurt and angered her, yet couldn't bring himself to bare his soul for   
her analysis. As much as he loved Scully, there were times when   
her strict rationalization drove him to distraction. 

Not that he could blame her for jumping to the wrong conclusion.   
Outwardly he was displaying all the classic symptoms of a man   
experiencing the aftermath of extreme trauma. How could he   
explain to her the details of what was going on inside his head   
without reinforcing her suspicions? Vivid flashes of memory that   
bore no relation to his life. Winding up at the scene of a crime with   
no recollection of driving there. And his nightmares...Real enough   
to make him believe he was reliving an actual trauma. But whose?

No, this was different. And if Scully needed proof, then he'd find   
it. Starting with Monica Mitchell's death.

Flapping against the lapel of his jacket with each footfall, the   
visitor's pass allowed Mulder hassle-free access to the BSU   
bullpen. Computer keys clacking out an erratic beat, men and   
women with faces too worn and haggard for the early hour sat   
huddled together, poring over autopsy reports and crime scene   
photos, lab data and eyewitness testimony. So engrossed in their   
investigations, they failed to notice him weaving his way between   
desks and white boards towards the elevator.

"Hey! Hey, Spookster! Is that you?" 

Instinctively Mulder turned, cursing his reflexes when he saw the   
smiling face of his one-time colleague, Joey Marcos, bearing down   
on him like a shark scenting blood. The man, a good six inches   
shorter than Mulder, approached with hand extended in greeting   
and a bounce in his step that was far too carefree for a man in his   
line of work.

"Hey, it is you, man. How ya doin', Spooks?" Joey gripped   
Mulder's hand in both of his and shook it with exaggerated   
enthusiasm. 

"Joey. Long time no see." Mulder discreetly wiped the lingering   
clamminess from Joey's palm along the leg of his pants.

"You got that right. What brings you to this neck of the woods?   
Aren't you supposed to be off chasing little green men or   
something?" He whizzed his index finger through the air making   
suitable UFO sound effects.

Mulder gave him a well-practiced look of long-suffering that   
involved rolled eyes and incorporated Scully's eyebrow.  
The look he kept on standby for just this kind of remark.

Oblivious to his former co-worker's silent rebuke, Joey continued   
on, "Heard a rumor, Mulder. That you were down for the count.   
Looking pretty damn good for a dead guy."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say: 'The reports of my death   
have been greatly exaggerated.'"

"So, watcha doin' back here?"

"Confined to desk duty. I'm stuck with grunt work at the moment.   
Fetch this, bring that--at least till the doc declares me fit enough to   
return to field agent status."

"Bummer." 

"Hey, you might be able to help me, Joey. I'm looking for some   
information on a recent murder victim. Monica Mitchell. She was   
killed in her home. Lived in Chevy Chase."

Marcos crossed his right arm over his chest, propped his left elbow   
on his clasped hand and stroked his chin. "Monica. Mitchell. Help   
me out, man, you know we're working 40 or 50 cases at any given   
time. I need more information--we don't all have your mystical   
powers of recall."

"She was fourth in a string of serial murders, killed by her ex-  
boyfriend. Stabbed. She..."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Yeah, I got who you're talkin'   
about. The guy...damn, what was his name...what the hell was his   
name...? Yeah, anyway, he swore he was innocent--find me a perp   
who isn't, right? The judge gave him the death penalty. 'Course   
he's appealing, still swears he didn't do it." He gave a soft snort,   
not really laughing. "Want to hear something funny--strange, I   
mean? The agent who worked that case went and got himself   
killed. A hit and run, no witnesses. Still..."

Joey's voice droned on. Drowned out by the sound of an engine.   
Headlights. Pain. Can't breathe...

"Hey!" A firm hand gripped his shoulder, and Mulder jolted back   
to the present. He blinked, eyes gradually focusing on Marcos's   
worried face.

"Spooks? You okay, man?" 

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine." A sudden sense of urgency arced through   
him, making his skin tingle and his heart race. Mulder checked his   
watch. "Hey, listen Joey, I gotta go. AD Skinner's breathing down   
my neck for those files. Maybe..."

"The case is closed, Mulder. 'Fraid you're gonna have to go diving   
deep to find 'em. Better you than me, man. I hate crawlin' around   
in that rathole."

"I know what you mean. Still it beats the alternative."

Joey raised his eyebrows.

"Wire tap."

"Ooh, you got it. 'Kay, Spooks, catchya later, man. Say hey to   
your pretty partner for me."

"I will." 

Mulder continued toward the elevator, berating himself for his   
carelessness. Joey "the mouth" Marcos. Of all the people to meet.   
If Scully heard about his latest little jaunt, he'd be traveling on a   
one way ticket to the hotel with the padded rooms. Wearing one of   
those nice jackets with the long arms that tied in back.

Two quick shoves at the call button, then Mulder stood back,   
waiting for the elevator to make its way up from the basement.

Preoccupied with his own thoughts, Mulder didn't notice the agent   
with thinning blond hair who had set aside his work in favor of   
tracking Mulder's progress through the bullpen. Or realize that the same   
man had been unobtrusively listening to his conversation with   
Joey. 

A soft rumble, a ding of arrival, and the doors slid open to an   
empty car. Mulder stepped inside, pressed the button marked "B,"   
then stood against the back wall.

The elevator descended on well-oiled cables, the smooth, steady   
ride an antithesis to the turmoil that writhed in Mulder's stomach.   
The deeper he traveled, the stronger the urgency thrummed   
through his body.

Mulder stepped into the corridor and headed toward the vault   
where closed cases were filed. His breath sounded unnaturally   
loud in his own ears and his footfalls echoed along the empty hall.

When he reached the door he was looking for, he stopped with one   
hand on the knob, heart hammering in his chest.

What the hell was wrong with him?

By sheer will alone, he pushed the feelings of disquiet aside and   
entered the room. The air smelled musty and stale. Like the victims   
in their graves, this was the final resting place for days, months or   
sometimes years, of hard investigative work.

He wandered along the rows of cabinets, keen eyes scanning the   
alphabetically labeled drawers until he reached the start of the 'M's.   
All five rows of them. Within seconds he found the correct   
drawer. He yanked it open and started flicking through names,   
stopping when he hit the jackpot: "Mitchell, Monica." With a little   
patience and cross-referencing, he'd soon collected folders for the   
four related murders, as well. 

Balancing the Mitchell folder on top of the stack, Mulder rifled   
through the contents, eyes skimming the various documents.   
Autopsy reports, findings from the Coroner and the ME,   
statements from potential witnesses--all were clipped together, an   
envelope marked "crime scene photos" tucked underneath. As he   
sifted through the papers, he checked names and signatures at the   
top and bottom of each page.

All seemed routine and in order. What was he supposed to be   
seeing? 

Then, from amongst the thick wad of papers, a name jumped out at   
him. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and gooseflesh ran   
in tiny bumps along his arms.

Wendy Gilmore's voice and puzzled expression played through his   
mind. 

*What happened to that other agent, the one who asked me all the   
questions? Said his name was Sal something...*

And Joey, obviously shaken...

*The agent working that case went and got himself killed.  
Hit and run.* 

Mulder swallowed hard, fear like a physical presence peering over   
his shoulder as he stared at the name in front of him. The agent of   
record: Sal DeAngelo.

Weak-kneed, heart racing, Mulder flipped the folder shut. Then,   
with very little thought for the consequences, he slipped the files   
under his arm and left the vault. Moving catlike along the corridor,   
he returned to the elevator and pushed the button. He watched the   
floor indicator, willing it to move faster, foot tapping a nervous   
patter on the ground and legs jiggling like a hyperactive toddler.

His uncanny run of luck continued when the elevator arrived, still   
empty. Climbing aboard, Mulder licked dry lips with an equally   
parched tongue. Sweat dribbled between his shoulder blades,   
gluing cotton to skin.

The ride up seemed interminably longer than the one going down,   
and the unconscious foot tapping resumed. When the doors finally   
opened onto the BSU bullpen, Mulder tucked the files inside his   
suitcoat, pasted on his best "butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth"   
smile, and strode purposefully towards the exit, making sure his   
gaze didn't waver from his destination.

He never noticed the blond man make his way casually to the exit.   
Standing quietly in the shadow of an indoor plant, he watched   
Mulder walk to his car and drive off.

 

Alexandria  
11:46 a.m.

 

He moved through his apartment with all the finesse of a runaway   
freight train. Keys hit the coffee table with a muted clank. Jacket   
went flying across the living room in the general direction of the   
couch, settling across the armrest and seat cushions. The soft thud   
as his ID and wallet slipped from the inside pocket and landed on   
the floor was completely overlooked in the frenzy of activity. 

With a quick jab of his index finger, and a flick of a switch, both   
computer and monitor whirred into life. 

Now what? He stood by the computer desk and looked around the   
apartment. The air smelled stale, musty. After nearly six weeks   
since he'd spent a night here, it felt like a stranger's place and not   
his home. Cold and stark. But perfect for what he needed to do. 

Mulder sat on his couch, feet propped on the coffee table and the   
files resting on his bent knees. Paging quickly through the sheets   
of paper he found what he was looking for.

The profile written by Sal DeAngelo. He stared at the name on the   
page, ignoring the throbbing pain building behind his left eye.

Photos. Lab reports. Testimonies. Five violent deaths laid out in   
excruciating detail. For nearly two hours, Mulder studied the   
contents of each folder--comparing, contrasting. Looking for   
something, anything to tell him why an unknown force seemed   
determined to involve him in the death of a woman he'd never met.

As he moved back and forth between the profile and each case, he   
found it.

A male, thirty-five to fifty, the profile stated. Highly intelligent, yet   
lacking interpersonal skills. A loner, an ugly duckling with an   
extreme hatred for the type of beautiful woman he's certain will   
never give him a second glance. He's meticulous about the details   
of each murder--from the type of victim to the execution. It's all   
about violating them--forced entry into the home, rape, even the   
removal of valuable personal items as trophies. The depth and   
proliferation of the stab wounds are indicative of the extreme fury   
that drives him to kill.

Sal DeAngelo was obviously very good at what he did. His profile   
fit the perpetrator of first four crimes like a glove, the details of   
each scene so similar as to be nearly interchangeable. He'd painted   
a vivid picture of an individual whose deep sense of inadequacy   
and uncontrollable rage had compelled him to commit a series of   
heinous crimes. 

Monica Mitchell's death, however, was not one of them. And   
unless Mulder had completely lost his touch, Gary Jansen was no   
serial murderer.

Far fewer stab wounds, their depth--except for the fatal strike   
through her heart--shallow. Though a rape kit revealed she'd been   
penetrated, there was no accompanying bruising or tearing.   
Perhaps most telling of all, a thorough inventory had turned up no   
missing valuables. Add to that the fact that she and Gary had a   
prior, long-term relationship, that he'd been dating another woman   
for nearly six months at the time of Monica's murder...

"You convicted the wrong man. Gary Jansen is going to die for a   
crime he never committed." Mulder lifted a crime scene photo,   
staring at the dark-haired man crouching over Monica Mitchell's   
body. "Is that what this is all about?"

Moving to his computer, Mulder wiggled the mouse and brought   
the screen to light. He clicked on bookmarks and went straight to   
"The Washington Post Online." Following the links he surfed his   
way to the archives, hesitating for a second before pulling up the   
obituaries. He typed "Sal DeAngelo" into the search engine,   
holding his breath as the computer sifted through files.

Bingo!

Oh God.

He sucked in a deep breath, a useless attempt to still the trembling   
that wracked his body. "Salvatore DeAngelo, 42, died of injuries   
sustained when he was struck by a car sometime during the early   
morning hours on August 2, 2002." Mulder read the sentence four   
times, one hand pressed to his chest.

He'd been shot on August 2nd. While Sal DeAngelo had been busy   
dying along a deserted road, he'd been lying in a hospital across   
town, engaged in the same activity.

Skimming further through the listing, Mulder searched for more   
details. "an agent with the Federal Bureau of   
Investigation...survived by his wife, Vickie..." 

Vickie. 

The dream. Scully's worried voice. *Who's Vickie?* His confused   
response. *Vickie? I don't know any Vickie.*

Mulder buried his head in his hands, fingers massaging the   
nagging pain in his temple. God, what was happening to him? He   
needed to know. To find out everything about Sal.

He pushed himself back from the desk, opened a drawer, and   
pulled out the phone book. He had a name, and a suburb. Within   
minutes, he had an address.

Scooping his jacket off the couch and the keys from the table,   
Mulder headed out the door.

***************

He felt strange. Disconnected. As if his body had staged a coup,   
limbs functioning according to their own, private agenda. Mulder   
tightened his fingers on the steering wheel, squinting against the   
headache that pulsed just behind his eyes. He passed a dry cleaning   
establishment, then a bank, skin tingling with an increasingly   
powerful sensation of dÈj‡ vu. For a split second he could picture   
himself fumbling to hold onto several clean suits in slippery plastic   
bags that slithered out of his grasp to puddle on the concrete.   
Could hear himself bantering with the teller at the drive-up   
window, a young girl named Rose who teased him about his   
accent.

Accent?

Mulder blinked, gave a sharp shake of his head. Where had that   
come from? He tore his gaze from the buildings and focused on the   
road, turning right, then left, and right again. 

Ten minutes later he'd exchanged the bustling city atmosphere for   
a quiet, nearly deserted stretch of road lined with mature trees. As   
he rounded a curve, a particularly large tree caught his attention.   
His foot slammed down onto the brake with such force the tires   
squealed in protest. More screeching tires, and the driver directly   
behind him leaned on his horn. Mulder pulled onto the shoulder,   
oblivious to the shouted obscenities and upraised middle finger of   
the irate driver who zoomed past.

He got out of the car, left it idling on the edge of the road as he   
walked slowly toward the tree--an oak, long dead, its branches   
twisted and devoid of leaves. His gaze dropped to the ground   
beneath the tree, the dirt still bearing faint impressions of multiple   
tire tracks. His heartbeat doubled and gooseflesh broke out on his   
arms as the world narrowed to a pinprick of light and sound.

*Night air, cooling the sweat on the back of his neck as he struggles   
with the wrench in his hands.*

*Headlights--brilliant and blinding in the darkness.*

*Recognition, followed rapidly by disbelief.*

*Betrayal.*

*Terror.*

*Heart pounding, legs tangling, falling...*

*Bright agony.*

He clutched his chest, legs crumpling until he was kneeling in the   
dirt. His lungs burned like fire as he gasped and panted for air.

"Mister, are you all right? Do you need help?"

The voice cut through the haze and he abruptly realized both eyes   
were clamped tightly shut. He cracked them open, turning his head   
toward the road. A yellow Volkswagen Beetle hovered on the   
shoulder about ten feet away. The driver, a young girl who could   
not have been more than seventeen, was watching him uneasily.

"'S okay. 'M all right. Just...just tripped." He pried one hand away   
from his chest and waved her onward, forming his lips into what   
he hoped was a convincing smile.

She hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Okay, then. If you're   
sure." Her car was moving before she finished speaking, the relief   
on her face painfully obvious.

The vise across his chest was loosening, his respiration easing. He   
stood and dusted off his pants, frowning at the dark stains on his   
knees. Vickie was gonna kill him.

He walked slowly back and climbed behind the wheel, carefully   
maneuvering the car into the light flow of traffic. By the time he   
pulled into the driveway his breathing had returned to normal, the   
terror of his experience on the roadside fading, eclipsed by the   
need to find his files.

He tried three different keys before conceding that he'd somehow   
lost the one to the front door. Ringing the bell produced no result--  
Vickie must be out shopping. Whistling softly he walked around to   
the back porch, retrieved the spare key taped under the picnic   
table, and let himself inside. 

Drawn drapes left the living room heavily shadowed and silent   
except for the hushed ticking of the mantle clock. He slipped off   
his suitcoat and laid it over the back of a chair, one hand gliding   
along the banister as he climbed to the second floor. Four steps   
down the hallway and he paused in the bedroom doorway,   
forehead creasing at the rumpled bed and scattered clothing. Not   
like Vickie to leave a mess--she was normally almost anal in her   
neatness.

Shrugging, he continued to the room kitty-corner from the   
bedroom. His room. The study. 

He dropped into the desk chair and flicked on the computer.   
Lacing his fingers behind his neck, he swiveled, letting his gaze   
wander as he waited for the machine to boot up. The bookcase,   
shelves lined with texts on law, psychology, and forensics. His   
doctorate in criminal psychology from Georgetown, framed and   
hanging beside the letter of commendation received after his   
successful resolution of the Berkshire kidnapping. His "lucky"   
paperweight, the marble surface polished smooth by the many   
hours spent in his hand as he worked through a profile.

He sat forward, frown returning as his gaze continued to pan across   
the room. No empty coffee mugs, no soda cans, and not a single   
article of shed clothing. Everything in its place, but neat as a pin.   
Why had Vickie been cleaning in here? She normally referred to   
the study as "your territory," steadfastly refusing to tidy the area   
for fear of disturbing vital paperwork.

And speaking of paperwork, what about all his files? He'd been   
researching a couple profiles, but the folders no longer rested in   
their customary spot on the corner of his desk. Where would   
Vickie have moved them, and why?

Resolving to question her later, he pulled a floppy disk from the   
drawer and loaded it into the drive, then pulled up his email   
account. The mechanical voice cheerfully told him what he already   
knew--he had mail. All animation seeped from his features as he   
opened his inbox and retrieved the email that had changed   
everything.

*I'm not a whore and I don't intend to be treated like one. I wonder   
how the lovely Mrs. Kyle McNally would feel about her husband if   
she knew he was screwing around?*

Bright red silk and long pale legs. Snuggled in the arms of a man   
he'd have sworn he knew as well as himself.

He copied the file and stuffed the disk into his pocket. Reaching   
for the mouse, he froze, hand stilled by another photo--this one   
perched on the far edge of the desk. Taken more than a year   
earlier, at Jack Kaminski's retirement party. The BSU's answer to   
the rat pack--Corey Peterson, Steve Pendleton, himself...and Kyle   
McNally. Arms around each other's necks, drinks in hand,   
mugging for the camera. 

Rage tightened his muscles to knots, caused a flush to creep up his   
neck and across his cheeks. He snatched up the photo, spun, and   
flung it against the wall. The impact, a spectacular crash and   
shower of broken glass, did little to diminish his fury.

The voice, small and trembling with fear, quenched it completely.

"Who...who's there?"

Contrition immediately followed. "It's just me, sweetheart. I'm   
sorry, I...accidentally broke something."

Dead silence.

"Vickie?"

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?" Higher pitched   
now, wavering between fear and something that sounded like   
anger.

He chuckled a little at the tough edge--his little wildcat. "It's my   
house, too--unless there's somethin' you want to tell me. I'm up in   
my study."

When she didn't answer he heaved a sigh of frustration, got up, and   
strode down the hallway to the top of the stairs. She stood rigidly   
at the bottom, one hand clutching the railing in a white-knuckled   
grip. Her dark eyes looked huge in a face paler and thinner than he   
remembered. Even so, in a bright red sweater and short black skirt   
she stole his breath.

"Whatsamatta with you? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She squinted against the shadows, slowly shaking her head. "You   
can't...it's not possible." She tentatively climbed one step then two,   
halting halfway up the flight.

"Who ARE you?"

He was starting to worry now. Had something terrible happened   
while she was out, some kind of trauma? He started down the   
steps, freezing when she drew back with a hiss.

"Vickie, cara mia, it's me. It's Sal. What's wrong?"

Her hand darted to her mouth, unable to repress a strangled sob.   
"Stop it! You're not my husband, you can't be Sal!"

The wild, hysterical tone to her voice provoked both sympathy and   
irritation. He lunged down the steps between them and seized her   
arm.

"You're not making any sense. Why the hell can't I be Sal?"

"Because Sal is dead, you bastard!" Her fists came up to beat on   
his chest as she sobbed. "He's dead and I buried him; I watched   
them put him in the ground. Get out, get out! Why are you doing   
this to me?" 

She shoved him hard and fled down the stairs, her arm slipping   
easily from his nerveless fingers. He sat down heavily, spinning   
head cradled in his palms, vaguely registering the sound of weeping   
and running feet. The headache, forgotten for a time, returned with   
a vengeance. He dug the heels of his hands into his temples with a   
soft moan.

After several minutes Mulder lifted his face to stare at his   
surroundings. Where the hell was he? DeAngelo's house? How had   
he gotten here? He grasped the banister and hauled himself   
upright, staggering down the steps. A voice carried from the back   
of the house, a flood of words between hiccuping sobs. Speaking   
to someone on the phone, from the sound of it. Alarmed, Mulder   
let himself out the front door and walked quickly to his car.

He grasped the door handle and tugged, grimacing when the latch   
refused to budge. Locked. Stealing a peek over his shoulder, he   
reached into the front pocket of his pants.

No keys. 

He patted himself down without success. Jiggled the door handle   
and peered through the window, half expecting to see the ring   
hanging from the ignition. Nothing.

A gust of wind set him shivering, and like a lightbulb snapping on   
over his head, Mulder realized he was missing his suitcoat. He   
glared at the house, feet shuffling, then jogged back and cracked   
open the door. A cursory scan of the living room located his jacket   
folded over the back of a chair. In a matter of seconds he'd   
snatched it up, fished the keys from its pocket, and returned to the   
car.

He heard the distant wail of a siren as he slid behind the wheel. His   
hands were shaking so badly that when he tried to insert the key   
into the ignition the whole ring tumbled to the floor. Cursing, he   
ran his fingers over the mat, snagged the ring, and fumbled the   
correct key into place. 

He'd just shifted into reverse when the police car pulled up,   
blocking the end of the driveway.

Mulder pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, stomach rolling.   
He reached into his pocket for his ID, frowning when his fingers   
encountered smooth plastic. What the...? He stared at the disk   
until the sound of slamming car doors jolted him to action. He bent   
and slipped it under the mat beneath his feet.

Then, squaring his shoulders, he opened the door and got out,   
hands raised.

 

**************  
ACT IV  
**************

 

Hoover Building  
4:39 p.m.

 

"Agent Scully?"

Scully turned from the filing cabinet, startled to see the Assistant   
Director standing beside Mulder's desk. She tugged the manila   
folder from its slot and shut the drawer.

"Sir? Is there something I can do for you?"

"I've had a rather disturbing call from the Silver Springs PD. I was   
hoping perhaps you could shed some light on the circumstances."

Scully crossed the room and laid the folder on her desk, forehead   
creased. "Silver Springs? We don't have any cases pending under   
that jurisdiction."

"Nevertheless, this situation concerns you on a more...personal   
level." 

At Scully's folded arms and raised eyebrow, he continued. "I've   
been asked to come down to the station. Earlier this afternoon, one   
of their units responded to a breaking and entering call at a private   
residence. The suspect was still on the premises when they arrived,   
and was taken into custody without incident. He claimed to be an   
FBI agent, but was unable to produce valid ID." He paused,   
watching her face. "Scully, it's Mulder."

Scully's jaw literally dropped. "Mulder? Sir, that's ridiculous, why   
on earth would Mulder...?"

"The residence belongs to a Vickie DeAngelo."

She blinked, abruptly lightheaded. "Vickie?"

"DeAngelo. Coincidentally, her husband used to be a profiler for   
the BSU." His eyes narrowed. "Or maybe not so coincidentally.   
Scully, if you know something..."

Still reeling, she pasted on her poker face. "Sir, I am just as baffled   
by this news as you are."

"Then I suggest we go to the source. I'll drive."

She could do little more than nod and follow him out the door.

They drove in silence. Scully kept her eyes fixed on the road,   
though peripherally she could see the little muscle twitching in her   
boss's jaw as he ground his teeth together. Her stomach churned   
and she had to fold her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting.

*What's going on in that head of yours, Mulder? Who is Vickie?*

"Sir, you said Mrs. DeAngelo's husband used to be a profiler. Is he   
no longer with the Bureau?"

"He died a little over a month ago. Hit and run--they never caught   
the driver." Skinner studied her profile before turning his gaze   
back to the road. "Scully, I was under the impression that Mulder   
was recuperating well. He's scheduled to return for light duty next   
week. Is there something I need to know?"

*Don't ask me this.*

"Physically he's almost completely recovered. There's some   
lingering pain and weakness, but..."

"You and I both know the physical effects of being shot can be   
only half the problem. Level with me, Scully."

She stared at a passing minivan, a harried-looking woman at the   
wheel, the back crowded with children. "There have been   
some...symptoms of emotional trauma."

"PTSD?"

"Nothing so severe. Nightmares, trouble sleeping..." She flushed.   
Yes, Skinner had helped her settle Mulder into her apartment after   
his release from the hospital--when he could barely walk across the   
room without extreme pain and fatigue. Her partner's need for 24-  
hour nursing, however, had long since expired. "That's what he   
tells me, anyway."

For just an instant she could have sworn amusement replaced the   
concern in her boss's eyes. Then he frowned, and she was certain   
she'd imagined it. 

"Has he talked to anyone?"

A pause. "No, sir."

Skinner pulled the car into a parking space and shut off the engine.   
Rather than open his door, he turned to face her.

"Scully, it's non-negotiable. I don't care if he sees someone from   
the Bureau or a private psychologist on his own dime. He's not   
coming back to work until he's been cleared, both physically AND   
mentally."

"Yes, sir."

"I can tell him, if you'd like."

"No, thank you anyway, sir. I think it might be better coming from   
me."

Skinner's mouth twitched and he reached for the door handle. "No   
doubt."

******************

Mulder was seated at the table in a small interrogation room, head   
cradled in his hands. He looked up, lifting his shackled wrists with   
a smirk when Scully stepped inside and shut the door.

"Would you be shocked if I confessed this is a common fantasy of   
mine?"

"I'm glad you find this humorous. Maybe if you'd been the one   
riding with Skinner on the way over here you'd feel differently."   
Scully produced a key and unfastened the cuffs, her words clipped   
and her movements brusque.

Mulder sat back, massaging the red marks encircling his wrists.   
"They actually called Skinner? I was hoping..."

"Yes, Mulder, they called Skinner. They thought he'd like to know   
that one of his agents was pulled in on a B&E. They were right."

"Look, Scully, I'm sorry. I..."

"What the hell is going on, Mulder? Who is Vickie DeAngelo, and   
what were you doing inside her house?"

His lips tightened and his eyes evaded hers, dropping to the   
tabletop. "I don't know."

"You don't know what? You don't know who Vickie is, or you   
don't know why you were in her house?"

"Either. Take your pick."

His soft admission defused her anger. "Mulder, I'm worried about   
you. You need..."

"Listen to me for a minute, Scully. Something's going on;   
something I'm having a difficult time understanding myself. It's   
related to the shooting, but it's NOT what you think."

Scully dropped into the chair opposite him with a sigh. "Go on."

"For the past few weeks, I...I've been having some disturbing   
visions."

"The nightmares."

"Yes. The same dream, over and over. Bright lights bearing down   
on me...pain...and most of all, the feeling that I'm not myself.   
That I'm seeing through someone else's eyes.

"But that's not all. The other day, when I was shaving, I looked in   
the mirror and for a split second...Scully, I saw the face of a   
stranger. A man I've never seen before in my life. Black hair. Dark   
eyes." He hesitated. "Italian."

Scully laid one hand over his fingers as they drummed a staccato   
beat on the oak tabletop. "Mulder..."

"Just hear me out. The past few days I've been getting impulses,   
compulsions that I can't explain. I've wound up in unfamiliar   
situations and places, with no recollection how I got there. But   
every time it's served to involve me in a specific case--a homicide.   
One of a string of serial murders investigated by our own BSU.   
I've seen the files, Scully. The profiler's name was Salvatore   
DeAngelo."

She stared at him, her chest tight and her heart pounding, as a   
confusing jumble of words and images clicked into place.

*The residence belongs to a Vickie DeAngelo.*

*There's bright lights...an engine. I think...I think I get hit by a car.*

*Her husband used to be a profiler for the BSU...He died a little   
over a month ago--hit and run.*

She shook her head, her mouth speaking logic though her brain   
shrieked that something was terribly wrong, that he'd finally   
crossed the line between extreme possibility and delusion.   
"Mulder, I think I see where you're going with this, and..."

"Sal DeAngelo died sometime in the wee hours of the morning of   
August 2nd, Scully. Sound familiar?" When she didn't answer, her   
face pale and set, he plowed on. "I was clinically dead for nearly   
three minutes. What if Sal DeAngelo died at that same moment?   
What if our souls somehow became linked, so that when I came   
back I brought a piece of his along with me?"

"Why, Mulder?" Scully's voice turned sharp, anger a means to   
conceal her fear. "Setting aside the fact that your hypothesis   
violates the most basic rules of nature, of life and death, WHY   
would this Sal latch onto you like some kind of...of...spiritual   
parasite?"

"Maybe because he died too soon. What if there was a greater   
purpose to his life--a vital task to perform, an injustice to correct--  
but he was interrupted before he could fulfill it?"

"Are you suggesting he picked you to do it for him?"

"Why not? Profiling requires a specific mindset, a way of thinking   
outside the box. Maybe there was a...a kinship between us, even   
though we'd never met. Something that convinced him I'd finish   
what he started." 

"Why do I get the sense you're going to tell me exactly what that   
was?"

"I've gone over the casefile, Scully; I can show it to you. They   
arrested, tried, and convicted a killer based on evidence gathered   
from the last crime scene. Yet the crime itself contained some   
major deviations from the four previous homicides, and the man   
they arrested didn't fit the accepted profile. If Sal knew they'd   
convicted the wrong man, if he was killed before he could act on   
that knowledge..."

"Stop it, Mulder! Just stop it!"

Her fury cut off his words and stilled his feet. "Scully?"

"Have you been listening to yourself? Mulder, you are so far past   
the point of reason, it's like you're in your own world. Souls   
coming back from beyond the grave, wrongfully convicted   
killers...You've buried yourself in a fantasy to keep from dealing   
with the reality."

He propped his hands on his hips. "All right, Scully. Enlighten me.   
What reality is that?"

She walked over and took his face between her palms. "You   
suffered a terrible trauma, and your brain isn't about to let you   
proceed as if it never happened. You have to deal with it, Mulder.   
You have to talk to someone."

He stared at her, dumbfounded, then pulled away. "Scully, did you   
hear a word I said? This has nothing to do with..."

"It has everything to do with it! Mulder, I know you aren't going to   
like this, but the AD and I are in agreement. I'm recommending   
you see a medical doctor, as well as a counselor. Your brain was   
deprived of oxygen while you were arresting. Your tests at the   
time showed no adverse impact, but under the circumstances, I   
think it would be wise..."

"Let me get this straight--you want me to see a shrink AND check   
for brain damage? Why not just get Skinner and sign the   
commitment papers now, Scully? You've done it before."

"That's not fair."

"The hell it's not! The fact is you'd rather believe that I've lost my   
marbles than open yourself to the possibilities."

"Mulder..."

"Am I free to leave? Or am I going to be charged?"

She drew in a deep breath, released it slowly. "You can go. Mrs.   
DeAngelo decided not to press charges--she was more upset than   
angry. Skinner had someone get your car. It's parked out front." 

"Fine." Mulder yanked open the door.

"Mulder. Mulder, wait!"

He kept his back to her, shoulders rigid. "What now? Are you   
going to tell me I'm too mentally impaired to safely operate a   
motor vehicle?"

Scully winced at the sarcasm before her own temper flared. "Don't   
be ridiculous. I rode down here in Skinner's car. I was hoping we   
could drive home together."

Fingers tightened on the doorjamb, followed by a sharp shake of   
his head. "If you mean your apartment, I don't think so. I'm going   
back to my place. I need some space."

Though his words cut her deeply, Scully tipped her chin up.   
"Fine."

He disappeared into the noisy squadroom without a backward   
glance. Scully bit down hard on her lip and blinked against the   
sting of tears, wondering how things had so quickly spiraled out of   
control.

 

Alexandria  
10:18 p.m.

She thought he was crazy.

Mulder paced back and forth across the small room, turning the   
basketball in his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering a   
hospital room and agony so overwhelming that for a time he'd been   
convinced death would be preferable to life...

**The lights blazed too brightly against his eyelids; the slightest   
sounds a deafening cacophony. His chest felt as if it had been   
smashed to bits and then reassembled by harsh, uncaring hands.   
The machine breathed for him--the rhythm all wrong, too slow, too   
deep--yet he could not muster the energy to protest. He wanted to   
disappear, to retreat back to the darkness that erased the pain, but   
gentle fingers moved across his brow, detaining him.

"I know it hurts, Mulder. I know how tempting it must be to let go."   
The voice wavered, broke, and the fingers vanished. He waited,   
latching onto the phantom touch with all his strength.

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. And I know you can do this.   
You hear me, Mulder?" Hands slipping something around his   
neck, her warm, sweet breath against his skin. Lips brushed his   
cheek. "You have the strength of my beliefs. You came back to me.   
Please stay."**

When had she stopped believing?

Mulder tossed the ball onto his couch and sat down at the   
computer. He plucked the floppy disk off the blotter, turning it   
over and over in his hands. He had no recollection of acquiring the   
disk, no clue what might be on it, and yet...

It was important. The key to what had been happening to him. He   
felt it in the fluttering at the pit of his stomach, the pricking of his   
fingertips. Gnawing on his lower lip, he popped the disk into the   
drive and pulled up the directory. Blank save for a single file.

"Judas."

Mulder grasped the mouse and double-clicked on the icon.

He read the text twice, stared at the picture for several minutes,   
then read the text again. 

*I wonder how the lovely Mrs. Kyle McNally would feel about her   
husband if she knew he was screwing around?

His gaze drifted to the original header.* 

From: kmcnally@fbi.gov  
To: sdeangelo@fbi.gov  
FWD: Better think again

K. McNally. Kyle McNally? Why did the name sound so familiar?

Mulder moved to the couch and began rummaging through the file   
folders spread across the coffee table. He found what he was   
looking for on the official copy of the profile. Submitted by Sal   
DeAngelo to Kyle McNally, ASAC. He stood, profile in hand, and   
returned to stare at the picture on the computer screen.

"So Kyle McNally, ASAC was getting a little on the side with you,   
huh, Monica? Maybe threatening him wasn't such a good idea.   
Maybe it was the last mistake you ever made."

He dropped back into the chair, scrubbing his palms over his face.   
Say Kyle McNally had killed Monica Mitchell and made it look   
like the work of a serial killer. Why would he send Sal a piece of   
incriminating evidence like this email? Especially when, from all   
appearances, he'd successfully pinned the murder on another man?   
Had the guilt finally overwhelmed him? Or was it somehow just a   
serendipitous mistake?

And what about Sal's death? Was it really a tragic accident? Or one   
murder calculated to cover another?

The phone rang and he scooped it up, half of his mind still working   
the problem. "Mulder."

"Is this Special Agent Fox Mulder?"

A man's voice--unidentifiable. Mulder straightened, tucking the   
receiver between shoulder and ear.

"Who wants to know?"

"My name is Kyle McNally, Agent Mulder. I'm an ASAC in the   
Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico."

Mind racing, Mulder kept his voice low and even. "I'm familiar   
with it."

A chuckle. "Yeah, I know. I've studied your cases. You were a   
helluva profiler."

"I'm sure you didn't call me to reminisce about my glory days in   
the BSU. What can I do for you, Agent McNally?"

"Sal DeAngelo was a good friend of mine, Agent Mulder. This   
afternoon I received a very upsetting phone call from his wife,   
Vickie. I'm sure you know what she had to say, and can understand   
why I found her story so disturbing."

"I'm a little disturbed myself, Agent McNally. I've been going over   
Monica Mitchell's casefile."

A short pause. "That's understandable; it was the last in a string of   
terrible crimes. Though I must say, I'm at a loss as to why you'd be   
going through our casefiles--especially one that was resolved   
months ago."

"After reading the file, I've my doubts about that resolution."

"A judge and jury felt otherwise. You left the BSU years ago,   
Agent Mulder. I think I have a right to know why the head of the   
X-Files division is suddenly second-guessing our work." 

"I guess you could say I was doing a favor."

"A favor? For whom?"

"Sal DeAngelo."

Dead silence. When McNally spoke again his voice had gained an   
edge.

"I think we need to talk, Agent Mulder. There are some things I   
can tell you about that case, things you won't get from the files."

"I'm listening."

Another laugh, this one with far less warmth. "Not over the phone.   
If I'm going to do this, I need to see your face."

"I'm assuming you have a meeting place in mind?"

"Are you familiar with Rock Creek Park?"

"I know it."

"I'll meet you there, by the main pavilion, at 11:30."

"Tonight? Hold on a minute, I'm not sure..."

"Look, you're the one dredging up old casefiles and terrorizing my   
good friend's wife. You want to know more about that case? We do   
it now, tonight."

Mulder hesitated, eyes wandering to the computer screen. "All   
right. I'll be there."

"Good. And Agent Mulder? You're the only one I'm willing to   
discuss this with. Bring anyone else, and the deal's off." A dial tone   
punctuated McNally's warning.

Mulder glanced toward the clock. 10:30. Enough time to call   
Scully and let her in on what was happening. He punched in the   
first three numbers before his brain caught up with his fingers,   
stilling them.

*"You've buried yourself in a fantasy to keep from dealing with   
reality."*

Scully had made up her mind--it would take a significant   
investment of time and patience to convince her otherwise.   
Unfortunately, at the moment he was operating under a deficit of   
both. This meeting was a chance not only to confront McNally, but   
also to get a better handle on Sal DeAngelo. He couldn't pass up   
such a golden opportunity.

With physical pang of regret, Mulder replaced the phone on its   
cradle.

 

Rock Creek Park  
11:28 p.m.

 

"Agent Mulder?"

Mulder moved from the shadow of a large pillar into a pale shaft of   
moonlight. He'd spent enough time studying the photo of McNally   
to easily recognize his features, but was unprepared for the icy jolt   
that shot up his spine upon confronting the man in person.

"I'm Kyle McNally."

McNally extended his hand, flushing when Mulder chose not to   
reciprocate, hands tucked into his jacket.

"You said you had information for me."

"I just want to save you a lot of time and effort. If you talked to Sal   
about this case, I think you probably got the wrong impression."

Mulder raised an eyebrow. "Really."

"Look, Agent Mulder..." McNally placed steepled fingers under   
his chin, then tapped his lips. "I don't know how well you knew   
Sal, but he was a good friend of mine. He was an excellent agent,   
and a damn fine profiler. I gotta tell you, though, he wasn't exactly   
himself those last few days before the accident."

"How so?" The headache was back--not a gradual ache but a   
sudden, intense throbbing.

"Something about the Mitchell murder just...set him off. He   
fixated on it, couldn't let it go."

"That's not atypical for a profiler, is it? I seem to recall eating,   
sleeping, and breathing a few cases myself."

"I understand what you're saying, but this...this was different."   
McNally shook his head with a pitying expression. "Even after   
we'd caught, tried, and convicted the killer, he couldn't move on.   
Kept poring over the file, looking for something we might have   
missed. I was starting to really worry about him."

Mulder tamped down the fierce anger bubbling up inside him. "As   
I said, Agent McNally. I read the file, and I can understand Agent   
DeAngelo's concerns. Your convicted killer never fit the profile.   
For that matter, the Mitchell crime scene held some significant   
deviations from the previous murders."

"Hardly significant when you've caught the killer with the victim's   
blood on his clothing," McNally snorted. 

He was too cool, confident. Time to shake things up. "Perhaps Sal   
knew more than he let on. Maybe he'd found something, some   
piece of evidence that would prove someone else killed Monica   
Mitchell."

The amusement froze on McNally's face and he turned hooded   
eyes to scrutinize Mulder. "That's absurd. Agent Mulder, I've tried   
to be a good sport, but I think I've reached my limit. You've been   
sticking your nose in files that don't concern you. And as if that   
weren't enough, you've badly frightened a good woman with your   
bizarre behavior. That little stunt you pulled at her house today was   
cruel and in bad taste. Now if you don't drop this unauthorized   
investigation immediately, I'll be forced..."

Mulder gritted his teeth, feeling his temper slip between his   
fingers. "It has been authorized--by the man who saw through the   
web of lies and deceit. Agent DeAngelo..."

"Sal DeAngelo has no authority! He's dead, and the case is closed.   
Now I'm warning you..."

Hands knotted in McNally's jacket, he jerked the man forward until   
their faces were nearly touching. "How could you do it? I trusted   
you; you were like a brother to me."

Kyle hung limply in his grip, face white. "S...what?"

He shook him, Kyle's hands fluttering in protest. "You screwed us   
both, didn't you, paisan'? We thought we knew you, but we didn't   
have a clue. Which was harder--looking Monica in the face while   
you cut her or running me down on the street like a dog?"

Kyle's eyes nearly popped from his head. In an adrenaline-fueled   
burst of strength he grasped Mulder's shoulders, bringing a knee up   
to connect squarely with his midsection. When Mulder doubled   
over, clutching his stomach, Kyle stepped back and pulled his gun.   
His voice shook, but his grip was steady.

"Hands up in the air."

Mulder straightened slowly, arms laced across his gut. "It's...it's   
over, McNally. You turn yourself in, you'll buy yourself some   
points."

"Turn around. Put your hands on that picnic table and assume the   
position." When Mulder complied he frisked him, removing both   
his service weapon and the gun from his ankle holster.

"I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I've come way   
too far to turn back now. We're taking a little ride. Move."

Mulder walked toward the parking lot, McNally at his side, the gun   
pressed to his ribs. "You're never going to pull this off. My   
partner..."

"Shut up! One more word and I'll end this here and now." 

The park, closed since dusk, was deserted. McNally marched   
Mulder to a shiny new sedan and popped the trunk. He motioned   
for Mulder to get inside, scowling when he remained motionless,   
expression blank.

"What is it?"

"You got rid of it."

"Got rid of what?"

Mulder turned slowly toward him, something in his eyes shifting   
and changing until they looked nearly black in the dim light.

"The truck. Whatsamatta, paisan'? Couldn't get the blood out?"

With a strangled cry, McNally lifted the gun in both hands and   
brought the butt down on Mulder's head. Mulder crumpled toward   
the ground with a soft grunt, eyes fluttering shut. He was a dead   
weight, limp and unresisting when Kyle shoved him into trunk and   
locked it. 

No one saw the sedan that pulled out of the parking lot and sped   
off in a squeal of tires and spray of gravel.


	2. Chapter 2

~~~~~~~~~  
TEASER  
~~~~~~~~~

Hegel Place  
3:17 a.m.

 

The idiot up in 42 was at it again.

Helen Rezek tugged the pillow off her head, flopped onto her back, and glared at the ceiling. Heavy footfalls--what was he wearing, ski boots?--interspersed with sporadic thumps and thuds. No basketball yet, but it sounded like he was just warming up.

Why me? She asked herself. Fifty apartments in this building and I get stuck living under Mr. Insomnia. Why doesn't he just move in with Red permanently and put us all out of our misery?

Okay, so he was good looking. She and Carmen had bumped into him at the mailboxes a few times, and even bathed in sweat the man was gorgeous. Carmen was particularly fond of the cropped off blue tee shirt that displayed his abs to rock-hard perfection. She had stared at 42--Mulder, his name was--with a come hither look of such unbridled lust that Helen had wished she could sink through the floor. Subtlety was not one of Carmen's strong suits.

So, yeah, he was easy on the eyes. But he was still a pain in the ass. And the insomnia was the least of it. Gunshots, break-ins, dead  
bodies--to hear Mrs. Leibowitz talk, he'd been dead himself. More than once! He wasn't pretty enough to outweigh all that. Hell, George Clooney wasn't pretty enough to outweigh all that.

Another thud, this one so loud she nearly jumped out of her skin.  
Muttering all the things under her breath that she'd never have courage to say to his face, Helen slid out of bed, added a pair of faded gray sweats to the ratty tee shirt she was wearing, and stomped out to the elevator.

The sharp crack of her knuckles against the wood felt good--so good she had to rein in the impulse to let loose and pound. At first she received no answer, though the thumping and thudding abruptly ceased. Helen gritted her teeth and knocked again, more insistently. Too late, Buster. You're gonna get an earful.

The door finally swung open several inches to reveal a darkened interior, and Helen sucked in a deep breath, ready to release two years worth of frustration...

Except even in the poor lighting she could sense the face was all wrong--thinning blond hair, nose too small, and that lower lip... Best not to go there. She took hold of herself with a firm reminder that she was pissed.

"I want to speak to Mr. Mulder."

"He's not home."

Helen stopped the closing door with her foot, a little surprised by her own audacity, and matched the man's glare. "Then where is he? And who the hell are you?"

For just an instant she thought she saw the bland expression on the man's face flicker, as if something dark and dangerous kindled in the depths of his eyes. She jerked her foot from the doorway and took a quick step back, but his voice remained matter of fact.

"He's out of town. I'm a friend. He...asked me to take care of his  
fish."

"Last time I checked, feeding fish didn't require you to throw things." Shaking off her unease, Helen craned her neck to peer over his shoulder. "It's three in the morning, you know? Some of us would like to sleep."

The man drew farther back into the shadows and inched the door closer to the jamb, effectively blocking her view of the apartment. "Sorry. It won't happen again."

The apology was flat and insincere. Helen stared into the cold blue eyes and decided it was enough.

"Make sure it doesn't, or next time I'll go straight to the landlord.  
Your friend won't be too happy if you get him kicked out of his own apartment." Her attempt to bluster came out more like a whine.

He shut the door without reply, a fact for which she found herself  
profoundly grateful. She walked back to the elevator, arms clasped  
against her body in an effort to ward off a sudden chill that tingled  
between her shoulder blades.

"Taking care of his fish," she huffed under her breath, stabbing the  
button and shuffling inside. "Why should I be surprised?"

What did surprise her was the feeling she couldn't shake--the deep  
relief of someone who has narrowly avoided a head-on collision or just missed plunging over the side of a cliff. It was ridiculous, really, to let one of Mr. Mulder's oddball friends unnerve her so. She let herself back into her apartment, engaging the deadbolt. After a brief pause, she slid the chain lock into place.

Despite the silence from above, it was more than two hours before she found her way back to sleep.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
ACT I  
~~~~~~~~~~~

Location Unknown  
4:17 a.m.

His head felt like a bowling ball--too large and heavy for his neck.  
Mulder struggled to crack sticky eyelids, two thoughts cutting through the muzziness in his brain.

What hit me--a sledgehammer?

and

My mouth tastes like a tofutti rice dreamsicle.

His attempt to rub the sleep from bleary eyes was cut short by a sharp tug and the bite of metal. Surprise drove away the last of the cobwebs. He snapped his head right, then left, teeth gritted and cuffs rattling until the ice of logic cooled his rage from a boil to a simmer. Tamping down the initial panic, he drew in a deep lungful of air and slowly panned the room with forced objectivity.

The faint glow from a single lamp provided the only illumination. Across the room a Jacuzzi burbled, a bottle of wine perched in a silver ice bucket on the edge. The waterbed beneath him was king-sized, the sheets lavender silk. Mirrors on the ceiling, the walls, the headboard--all reflected the stunned disbelief on his haggard face. He jerked the handcuffs against the steel rings conveniently built into the headboard and groaned, head falling back on the pillow with a thud.

"Oh God. Please tell me this is just a kinky dream."

The trail of blood down the side of his neck, drying to rusty brown on his collar, was hardly reassuring.

By a combination of wriggling and scooting, Mulder managed to sit up. A quick inventory revealed that he'd been divested of cell phone and gun, and that the handcuffs binding him to the bed were his own. McNally had even removed his belt and shoes.

"Hey! Can anybody hear me? I'm a federal agent and I need help!  
Somebody? Help!"

He called out until his voice disintegrated to a rasp and the drums in his head turned from easy listening to heavy metal. No windows, and the louder he yelled, the more the walls seemed to swallow his cries.

"Soundproofed." He bared his teeth at his own reflection. "Loosens up those pesky inhibitions."

Ten minutes of trying to separate the restraining rings from the  
headboard achieved nothing but abraded wrists. Though his headache had subsided, the still-healing muscles in his chest throbbed, and a simple case of dry mouth had turned to real thirst. Searching for a more comfortable position, Mulder froze when the door abruptly swung open and Kyle McNally slipped inside.

His eyes fastened onto Mulder, sharply assessing, as he shut the door and engaged both the deadbolt and chain lock. One hand on the weapon at his side, he approached the bed, his wariness easing to a smile once he confirmed Mulder was still securely bound.

"Glad to see you're awake. We can get down to business."

"I'll admit I've had this fantasy plenty of times, McNally, but you were never the one that walked through that door. Sorry to disappoint."

The smile slid off Kyle's lips and his eyes went flat and cold. "You're a real funny guy, Agent Mulder. The only problem is, I don't feel much like laughing right now. I spent the last hour searching that dump you call an apartment for something that belongs to me, and I'm a little short on patience."

Mulder shrugged. "My partner always says I'm the only one who could understand my own filing system. Maybe if you told me what you were looking for..."

"You know what I'm looking for. I don't know how you got your hands on it, but I sure as hell don't intend to let you show it to the police."

"I would've pegged you as a smart guy, McNally. ASAC in the Violent Crimes section, a profiler. It was risky to cheat on your wife, but just plain stupid to take pictures."

McNally drew his gun and placed the barrel against Mulder's head. "Where is it? Tell me now or I pull the trigger."

"Pull the trigger and you'll never know--until the cops show up on your doorstep to arrest you for her murder." Mulder kept his voice soft and steady, though he could feel his pulse hammering against the cool steel at his temple.

Kyle didn't remove the gun, but his demeanor did an about face. "Look, I don't want to hurt you. Fair exchange: You give me all your copies of the email and I'll let you go."

"Such a deal."

"Looks to me like it's the best you've got."

The headache was back. He suddenly felt dizzy, disoriented. "How do I know you'll keep your word?"

"You'll just have to trust me."

Someone was tugging him, pulling him aside. Mulder tucked his chin to his chest, eyes slipping shut.

"Well?" Kyle prodded him with the gun.

"Trust you, huh? No problem. We all know you can be trusted, don't we, paisan'?"

Kyle gasped and stumbled backward a step, the gun dangling from his hand. The eyes staring back at him were now black as coal.

"Th...that's impossible, you're..."

"You're going to pay for what you did, buddy. To me, to Monica. I'm gonna make sure of it."

"Shut up."

"You're no better than the monsters we hunted; just another cold-blooded killer. Remember how you usta talk about Patterson? You said he was the lowest form of life--a nutcase who turned on his own. Well, look in the mirror, Goombah. You got ol' Billy boy beat."

"I said SHUT UP!" Kyle backhanded him, the muzzle of the gun catching Mulder across the cheekbone and rocking his head back against the headboard with a sharp crack.

Mulder's eyes slammed shut, an involuntary cry of pain wrenched from his lips. One hand reflexively rose to soothe his rapidly bruising cheek but the cuffs prevented it. Hazel eyes cracked open to glare at Kyle.

"So much for trust."

McNally had the gun pointed at his head again, but he couldn't mask the tremor in his hand. "I don't know what kind of headgame you're trying to play, but it won't work. You'll tell me where that file is or you'll die chained to that bed."

He holstered the weapon and walked to the door. "It's your choice. Think it over."

Mulder didn't want to ask; couldn't stop himself. "I think better when I've had a glass of water."

Kyle smiled, but his eyes were steel. "A little thirst won't kill you,  
Agent Mulder. Yet."

 

Georgetown  
5:42 a.m.

 

"This is Fox Mulder; I'm not home. Leave a message and I'll get back to you."

The telephone receiver smacked into the cradle with a loud crack. "Damn it, Mulder! Why won't you pick up?"

Hands tucked under her arms and top teeth tugging on her bottom lip, Scully paced the length of her apartment. Two calls last night, another five this morning, and all had been met with the voice recording from his answering machine. 

Fear gnawed at her stomach like a persistent rodent, last night's anger at being ditched long forgotten. She should have known better. Should have predicted how he would react to her concerns. She hadn't planned on telling him about the counselor until they were home where she could explain it to him calmly, in the right context. 

She huffed loudly. The best laid plans and all that... 

Scully paced towards the phone again, her hand automatically reaching for the receiver before she pulled it away and tucked it back under her arm.

Well into the early hours of the morning, she had tossed and turned, wrestling in her mind with everything Mulder had said to her. And no matter how hard logic argued in favor of PTSD, or worse yet, brain damage, when she'd taken time to objectively sift through all the facts, Mulder's reasoning made a weird kind of sense.

Perhaps it had been easier for her to believe he'd suffered some kind of mental breakdown due to his near death experience. It sure as hell beat the alternative: A disgruntled ghost determined to use her partner as a means to right a perceived wrong? At least medical science offered her a concrete path to a cure. But now... She wasn't so sure.

Everything Mulder had said to her last night... In the cold hard light of day it didn't seem quite so improbable. What if he was right? While her mind had been busily rejecting each outlandish claim he threw at her, in her heart she had known that what he was suggesting was more than mere coincidence. How could he know so much about Sal DeAngelo? And his wife?

Easy answers eluded her. And the truth was frightening. But the image of Mulder's stricken face when she'd suggested he had lost his grip on reality frightened her more. And that, at least, was something she could fix. 

Finding herself back by the phone, Scully snatched up the receiver and punched the redial button, her fingers nervously tapping against her leg as the connection was made. On the sixth ring the answering machine picked up. This time she waited for the beep and left a message.

"Mulder, it's me. I'm coming over."

Weapon holstered and ID tucked into her pants pocket, Scully snagged her jacket from the coat tree, her cell phone and keys from the sideboard and headed out the door.

 

Alexandria  
6:32 a.m.

 

Morning rush hour and badly placed road construction combined to stretch Scully's already taut nerves to almost breaking point. By the time she'd reached Mulder's apartment, she'd given the car horn a heavy workout and left a trail of bird-wielding motorists in her wake.

Relieved to find a parking space in front of Mulder's building, Scully made a quick inventory of the other vehicles lining the street. There was no sign of his car.

She ran lightly up the steps leading to the entrance and pulled hard on the glass door. A young woman, dressed in sweat pants, long sleeved tee shirt and running shoes stumbled out, her fingers still wrapped around the handle.

Scully muttered a hasty, "Sorry," and slid past the woman. 

"Oh. It's you." 

"Excuse me?" Scully half turned, her attention still focused on getting to the elevator. 

"If you're here to feed his fish," the woman flicked her eyes skyward, "you're too late."

"I'm sorry, you are...?"

"The poor sap that ended up in the apartment beneath your boyfriend."

Scully shook her head, mouth opening and closing, but unable to come up with an appropriate response.

The young woman cast Scully a disparaging glare, "Look, I've got to go or I'll be late for work." With a quick swivel she turned, her short, brown ponytail swinging in time to her footfalls as she jogged down the steps.

Curiosity held Scully momentarily in place before urgency overrode her confusion and she continued towards the elevator. 

Three sharp raps on his door, followed by a succession of heavy pounding, failed to produce any sign of life from within Mulder's apartment.

Her fingers jittery and clumsy, it took Scully three attempts before she found the right key and inserted it into the lock. 

"Mulder? Are you there?" Scully pushed with her hip. The door swung open and she stepped inside.

What greeted her sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end and her hand reaching for her weapon. Disengaging the safety, Scully wrapped her fingers firmly around the grip, only marginally comforted by the weight of it nestled against her palm. 

Mulder's coat rack lay across the floor, an upturned chair behind the door. 

Moving cautiously, she made her way into the living room, weapon held securely in both hands, barrel aimed towards the ceiling. 

Silence, heavy and ominous filled the apartment. Her own breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness.

"Mulder?" 

Nothing.

She stepped around a large painting lying on the floor, the frame splintered and the glass cracked. The fish tank, undamaged and long devoid of any marine life, gurgled quietly on its shelf--a deceptive illusion of normality. 

The living room looked as if a hurricane had swept though it.

But she'd seen similar destruction before. Years ago, when Mulder had been searching for a well-hidden bug. At the time Scully had been surprised by his ability to turn his own apartment into an admirable impression of a garbage dump. While somewhat taken aback, she'd kept her surprise in check, reassured by the fact that he appeared rational and all in one piece.

She wondered if what she was witnessing now was the result of his frustration. Because he thought she was more willing to believe he was crazy than accept his theory. ...You'd rather believe I've lost my marbles than open yourself to the possibilities. 

Is that how he'd interpreted her concern? 

Oh, Mulder. How could I have gotten it so wrong?

A quick search of his bedroom and bathroom came up empty. Scully holstered her weapon and surveyed the devastation around her with a critical eye.

His coffee table, upside down, was pushed up against the couch. Most of what usually sat on his desk was now strewn beneath. Drawers were open and teetering on the edge of their cavities, the contents spilling onto the floor.

Nearly all of Mulder's books and CDs had been dumped from their shelves, piled in an untidy heap beside the couch. Ornaments and photos, some intact, others smashed to bits, lay in a scattered mess around the room. 

One photo in particular caught her eye. The familiar face of a dark-haired girl sitting on a tire-swing smiled up at Scully through a spider web of cracks. The early stirrings of alarm were beginning to escalate into full-blown panic as Scully scooped up the picture. Even at his worst, she knew Mulder could never bring himself to ruin this treasured memory of his sister.

She stood quietly in the middle of the living room, letting her mind process the situation. What had happened here?

She turned in a slow circle, seeking anything that might offer a clue. 

The soft hum of his computer caught her attention. The hard drive was running, the monitor blank, yet an orange light just above the power button indicated it was switched on.

Maybe he'd left her a message. 

She moved to his desk and jiggled the mouse. The screen burst to life and Scully's heart leapt to her throat. 

"ACCESS DENIED," blinked back at her.

Why would Mulder be denied access to his own computer? Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place, and the picture they formed made Scully's blood run cold. Biting down on her bottom lip and willing her hands to comply, she typed in the correct password and gained immediate access. No message from Mulder and no clue as to who or why someone might have been trying to hack into his computer. 

She drew small comfort from the fact that Mulder had probably not been home when the intruder broke in. If he had, she felt sure he would have been forced to type in the correct password. 

But that still didn't explain where he was and why someone would want to search his apartment.

His words from the previous night came back at her. ... Feeling that I'm not myself. ...An injustice to correct...I've gone over the case file...If Sal knew they convicted the wrong man...

The wrong man.

If Mulder was correct, then that left the real murderer still at large. And if he was on to Mulder...

Then she needed help.

Scully pulled her cell phone from her pocket and punched in Skinner's number. Long seconds stretched an eternity before her boss finally picked up.

"Skinner."

"Sir, it's Scully. I'm at Mulder's apartment." She took a steadying breath, surprised at the tremor in her voice. 

"Agent Scully? Is there a problem?"

"I think so, sir. Mulder's apartment has been ransacked. There's no sign of him or his car." 

She could almost hear Skinner's jaw grinding as he processed what she'd told him.

"What are you saying? Do you think he did it?”

"The thought crossed my mind, until I discovered that someone attempted to log onto Mulder's computer--and failed. I know he was upset after I suggested he speak to a counselor, but... there's something more going on here, sir. I'm worried about him." 

"Okay, Scully, I'm in the car now. I'll call ahead to the Bureau to arrange for a forensics team, and ask the local PD to put out an APB on his car. I should be there in...about thirty minutes."

"Thank you, sir."

Scully pocketed her cell phone, wondering if she should have told Skinner about Mulder's theory. But she was still having her own difficulties coming to terms with it. She'd wait, and tell him in person. 

Desperate to find Mulder, but mindful of the fact that she now stood in the midst of a crime scene, Scully decided on a compromise. A quick trip to the car provided her with a pair of latex gloves, which she donned before carefully sifting through some of the papers spread across the floor. 

Twenty minutes of fruitless searching failed to supply her with any new information on Mulder's whereabouts. 

Scully sat on the couch, head cradled in her hands and mind grappling with everything that had happened in the last 24 hours. She didn't hear her boss enter the apartment.

“Agent Scully.”

"Sir." Scully stood, stripping the latex glove from her right hand. She watched Skinner's gaze roam across the room, taking in the destruction, before homing in on her face.

"Forensics should be right behind me. Have you found anything to indicate where Mulder may have gone?"

"No. Unfortunately, it's going to take some time to sift through this mess. Whoever tossed the apartment was thorough."

Skinner nodded and his eyes cut over to the window. A small muscle above his cheekbone jittered and he grated his next words through clenched teeth.

"What the hell is going on, Scully? Last night Mulder broke into a dead agent's home and scared the hell out of his wife. Now this. Did he confide in you when you spoke to him at the police station? Do you have any idea what he's gotten himself into?" He tipped his head toward Mulder's overturned coffee table. "This would seem to negate the post-traumatic stress theory."

Voices drifted down the hallway, followed momentarily by several agents bearing forensic gear. "Don't have to ask if we're in the right place, " a dark-haired agent smirked as he set down a box. "How many times have we been here now?"

Skinner's eyes narrowed and his voice turned dangerously soft. "One of our own is missing, Agent. I suggest you cut the bullshit and concentrate on gathering evidence."

The reprimand had the desired affect. Scully watched with a combination of amusement and satisfaction as all three moved swiftly into professional mode, donning gloves, snapping open cases and labeling plastic bags. Skinner's hand on her elbow drew her toward Mulder's bedroom, out of earshot.

"Level with me, Scully."

"I'm not sure where to start." She laid one finger beneath her nose and took a deep breath. "Mulder's been...preoccupied by a serial murder case involving the death of a woman named Monica Mitchell. It's a closed case--solved by the VCS about six months ago. He believes they convicted the wrong man."

Skinner folded his arms. "A VCS case? Is that why...?"

"Sal DeAngelo was the profiler on record."

"Didn't he know DeAngelo is dead?"

"Oh, he knew." Scully poked her tongue into her cheek as she chose her next words. "Sir, Sal DeAngelo died the same night Mulder was shot. In fact according to Mulder, the incidents occurred simultaneously."

Skinner huffed. He strode several steps down the hall, spun on his heel and returned to Scully. "I'm not sure I'm reading you, Scully. What does Agent DeAngelo's untimely death and a closed murder case have to do with the fact that Mulder is missing?"

"Mulder is convinced that Sal DeAngelo was murdered because he'd discovered the identity of the man who really killed Monica Mitchell. He believes his spirit and Agent DeAngelo's became...linked during his near death experience, and that he's...channeling Agent DeAngelo."

"Channeling?"

"For lack of a better term." Scully shook her head. "Look, I know how it sounds. But even I have to admit that Mulder has been experiencing something not explainable by conventional methods. Sir, from what I can tell, he's been dreaming the last moments of Agent DeAngelo's life. In detail."

"Scully, last night you were willing to put this down to stress. Are you saying you believe him?"

Scully met his gaze squarely. "I'm saying Mulder deserves the benefit of our doubt. Putting aside the more...paranormal aspects of his theory, we both know there's no better profiler. If he says the courts convicted the wrong man..."

Skinner ran one hand along his jaw. "Then the real killer is still out there somewhere."

Scully's throat tightened. "Or maybe closer to home." She forced the unwanted emotion back into its box, well aware of Skinner's scrutiny. "I need to speak to Vickie DeAngelo. Mulder may have stumbled upon evidence when he was there last night. Something that could give us a clue as to where he is now."

Skinner looked at the bustle of activity in Mulder's living room, then jerked his head toward the door. "Go. I'll oversee Forensics and stay in touch with the police. Report back to me when you have something."

"Thank you, sir. I'll..."

"Excuse me."

Scully and Skinner looked up to see the dark-haired agent hovering near the entryway. 

"There's a woman here who says she might know something about Agent Mulder's disappearance."

Frowning, Scully strode toward the front door. Standing just inside was a young woman dressed in a smartly tailored navy suit, her chin-length dark hair cut in a smooth bob. It took a moment for Scully to recognize her potential witness.

"You live on the third floor. I bumped into you earlier this morning."

The woman nodded, hands fidgeting. "That's right. My name is Helen--Helen Rezek. My apartment is right under this one."

"You have information regarding Agent Mulder?"

"I think so."

Scully stepped closer, every muscle in her body on alert. "Did you see something that might help us determine his whereabouts?"

"Yes. Um, that is, no. Not exactly." Helen's eyes darted between Scully and Skinner. "I mean, I saw something, but I'm not sure it's relevant."

"Why don't you let us be the judge of that?"

"Sure. It's just--I wouldn't have thought twice about what happened if I hadn't seen all the cars out front this morning and heard the commotion. I mean, he's not exactly a model neighbor. He's got a lot of weird friends always coming and going--" She darted a glance at Scully and flushed. "--and I hear him knocking around at all hours of the night. Not the kind of guy you want living over your head. Except he's been really quiet lately, and I thought maybe he was turning over a new leaf. Which is why I got so pissed last night."

Scully clung to her patience. "Last night?"

"This morning, really. Two a.m. and I hear all this godawful thumping and banging coming from your friend's apartment. It got loud enough to wake the dead. So I got dressed and came up to tell him off." Helen frowned. "Except he wasn't here."

"He wasn't?"

"Not according to his friend. He said Agent Mulder was out of town, and that he was taking care of his fish." She looked at the wreckage with a mixture of fascination and disgust. "Guess that's not all he was doing."

Scully and Skinner exchanged a long look. "I'll take care of it." Skinner gestured toward the hallway. "Go ahead."

"Thank you." She impulsively laid one hand on his arm, then jerked it back, heat rising to her cheeks. 

As she squeezed past Helen Rezek and started down the hallway she heard Skinner speak in what Mulder called his "take no prisoners" voice. 

"You've been extremely helpful, Ms. Rezek, but I'm afraid I have to ask you to bear with us for a bit longer. I'm going to get a sketch artist over here and..."

 

The Atlantis  
Bungalow 26C  
8:23 a.m.

 

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke up, arms pricking with invisible pins and needles and tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Staring blearily at the less than flattering reflection above his head, he tried vainly to moisten dry lips.

"Suppose room service...'s out of the question."

It came out little more than a froggy croak, and he grimaced at the effect on his throat. He levered himself up to peer at the red LED display of the alarm clock on the nightstand.

8:23. AM or PM? In the windowless, soundproofed motel room time had a disconcerting ebb and flow. He didn't think he'd lost an entire day--had he?

Judging by McNally's demeanor, he doubted he'd been left alone and unmolested for more than a few hours. In fact, he was certain that McNally would only put up with him playing the strong silent type for so long before deciding a quick bullet to the head was the easiest solution.

He was isolated, helpless, in the hands of a man who had already killed his best friend with less provocation. Scully liked to tease him about having more lives than a cat, but he was hard pressed to see a way out this time.

Scully. A crystal clear image imprinted itself in his mind--the carefully neutral expression she'd maintained as he'd driven away from the police station. He'd hurt her. 

If those are my last words, I can do better.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, praying to a God he'd tried not to believe in and never allowed himself to trust. 

Please, let me do better.

Anger bubbled up, and he jerked hard on the cuffs, heedless of already abraded wrists. Something, a slight give in the left, caught his attention. With some pretzel-like twisting he was able to examine the metal ring more closely. One of the four screws bolting the faster to the headboard had begun to loosen--no doubt weakened by countless acrobatic feats Mulder refused to contemplate. 

One screw out of four. It was an outside chance, and even if he managed to loosen them all, it still left his right arm locked to the bed. Still, an outside chance was better than no chance, and any action was preferable to lying there passively, like a lamb awaiting slaughter. 

Mulder gritted his teeth, grasped the chain, and began methodically wiggling the cuff against the ring. And tried hard not to watch the ticking clock.

 

~~~~~~~~~  
ACT II  
~~~~~~~~~

 

The DeAngelo Residence  
8:23 a.m.

 

Scully pressed the doorbell and stepped back, adjusting her suit jacket with a sharp tug. Around her the neighborhood hummed with early morning activity: chattering children wound their way along the sidewalks toward school, a frazzled man juggled a cup of coffee and briefcase as he attempted to open his car door, a garbage truck rattled and clanked its way from curb to curb.

By contrast, the home before her was still, silent. Drapes remained drawn against the bright sunlight and a paper sat untouched on the front porch. Scully had just raised her hand, intending to ring the bell a second time, when she heard soft footsteps and the door cracked open to reveal a pair of wounded brown eyes.

"Agent Scully?"

Scully held up her ID and allowed Vickie DeAngelo to scrutinize it and her face. After a moment the door swung wide and Vickie motioned her inside.

"Come in. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?"

"Yes, thank you. It's been a long morning, I'm afraid."

She followed Vickie down the hallway to the kitchen and took a seat at the small wooden table. Vickie, clad in faded jeans and a pale blue sweater, poured coffee into two mugs and set one on the table. Scully couldn't help noticing how the clothing hung on the woman's slight frame.

"Cream? Sugar?"

Scully shook her head, sipping the steaming liquid. "Black is good. Nothing to dilute the caffeine."

Vickie smiled as she added a healthy dollop of cream to her own cup. "I'm afraid I find coffee completely unpalatable without this. Sal always said..." She broke off with a look of such intense sadness that Scully had to look away. Vickie cleared her throat and continued. "He used to say I didn't like coffee--I liked cream with coffee flavoring."

"I'm sorry. You must miss him very much."

Vickie sat down, swiveling the cup between her palms but not drinking. "A piece of me is gone forever. It's not easy learning to function with a chunk of your soul missing." The small line between her brows deepened. "Which is why your partner upset me so badly yesterday."

"I'm sorry. Please believe me when I say that Agent Mulder never intended to hurt you."

"I just hope you find him so he gets the help he needs. I was a cop's wife, Agent Scully; I know the toll that kind of stress can take."

Scully opened her mouth to protest; thought better of it. "Mrs. DeAngelo...

"Vickie."

"Vickie. As I said on the phone, I need to know more about what Agent Mulder may have been doing while he was here yesterday. I'd like you to tell me, in detail, exactly what happened."

Vickie brought the mug to her lips and blew gently on the hot liquid, only to set the cup back down, untouched. "When I came home from the store yesterday, there was a strange car in the driveway. I looked around outside the house, but didn't see anyone, so I just went ahead and pulled into the garage. Some of the teens around here aren't too discriminating about whose driveway they use to park their cars. I didn't think too much about it.

"I came into the house and started putting away the groceries I'd bought. And then I heard a noise."

"A noise?"

Vickie nodded. "From upstairs. A...a kind of a crash, like something had fallen over."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't want to panic, I mean, it could've been anything. The cat is always jumping up on the furniture, knocking things over." Vickie licked her lips. "I walked into the living room and called up the stairs." She chuffed, blushing. "Something stupid, like 'who's there?' As if a burglar's going to answer."

"What happened then?"

"Someone--your partner--answered. Scared the hell outta me. But that wasn't the worst part. It was the WAY he answered me that had me ready to scream." She shoved aside the cup and laced trembling fingers together.

"What did he say?"

"He said..." She drew in a long breath, visibly shaken. "He said, 'It's just me, sweetheart.'"

It felt like a punch to the gut, but Scully kept her face carefully neutral. "Go on."

"It knocked me for a loop. I...I was scared, confused, I didn't know what was going on. And he just kept talking to me like I was the crazy one and he was trying to calm me down, sounding just like..." A violent shake of her head and she popped up from her chair. The coffee from her mug found its way into the sink, followed by hot water and soap.

Scully stood and moved to her side. "Sounded like who, Vickie?"

"You'll think I'm as nutty as your partner."

"Try me."

She stopped fiddling with the dishes and pressed the back of one sudsy hand to her lips. "I was married to the man for nearly fifteen years. I know the sound of his voice as intimately as I know my own name, and..." Dark, haunted eyes searched Scully's face. "Agent Scully, I would've sworn it was Sal talking to me. The tone, the accent--he even called me 'cara mia' the way Sal did. How...how could that be?" She laughed, a bitter, jagged sound. "Maybe I am as nutty as your partner."

"Vickie... I can't explain what happened last night. I'm not sure anyone could. What I can tell you is that Agent Mulder has been experiencing a...connection to your husband. A connection that has to do with a case Sal profiled."

Curiosity drove some of the anguish from Vickie's eyes. "A case? Is that why he was in Sal's office?"

Scully concealed her surprise. "Most likely. Is that where he was when you found him?"

Vickie nodded. "Sal did all his Bureau work up there. It was his territory, and after getting a peek at some of the casefiles he worked on I was only too happy to stay out." She frowned. "What case was Agent Mulder interested in?"

"The murder of a woman named Monica Mitchell."

Vickie grimaced. "Oh my God. Not that one. First Sal couldn't let go of it and now your partner?"

"What do you mean 'Sal couldn't let go of it'?"

"Just what I said. The case was closed. The killer was caught, tried, and sentenced. But for some reason, Sal couldn't seem to move on. He kept saying something wasn't right, that the pieces just didn't fit. It had started to become an obsession. Even Kyle was worried about him."

"Kyle?"

"Kyle McNally. He was Sal's closest friend, worked with him at Quantico."

Scully nodded--the name was vaguely familiar. "Vickie, would you mind showing me Sal's office?"

Vickie dried her hands on a dishtowel, teeth gnawing her lip. "I guess not. You must realize there aren't any files up there anymore. Kyle came and took them all back to Quantico after..."

"I know. I'd just like to take a quick look around. Maybe it will give me an idea as to what Agent Mulder was doing here."

A moment's hesitation before Vickie nodded. "Sure. I suppose there's no harm in that. Follow me."

Scully stood in the center of the study, trying to see through Mulder's eyes. She ran a finger along the psychology and criminology texts, studied the diplomas. Something perched on the edge of the desk caught her eye and she crossed the room to pick it up.

"What's this?"

A mangled photo of four men, frame bent and glass missing.

Vickie reluctantly left her spot in the doorway and took the picture from her hands. "That's Sal, Kyle, and two of their friends from work." Her index finger caressed the face of a dark-haired man with olive skin and a beaming grin. "I found it after the police hauled off your partner yesterday. He must have knocked it onto the floor when he was using the computer--there was broken glass everywhere."

"Agent Mulder was on this computer?"

The sharp edge to Scully's voice pulled Vickie's attention from the photo. "Not only was he on the computer, he logged into Sal's email. I can't imagine how he figured out the password."

"Would you show me?"

Vickie pressed her lips into a thin line. "Look, I appreciate you wanting to find your partner, but that's Sal's private email and your partner already..."

"Please."

A deep sigh but Vickie sat down, grumbling as she booted up the computer. "I don't know what you think you're going to find. Kyle volunteered to check things over last night, and he said it all looked fine." She stood and motioned for Scully to take the chair.

Scully clicked her way through the various folders that contained bits of profiles, reference data, and personal notes. She opened Sal's email and scanned through the entries without noting anything unusual. She was about to shut the window when something caught her eye.

"Vickie, would you have deleted any of these emails?"

"Deleted? Are you kidding? I can still barely bring myself to dust in here. Like I said, Kyle came and took all the file folders away, but otherwise this office is just like Sal left it." She leaned over Scully's shoulder to stare at the screen. "Why?"

Scully pointed to the received dates. "There's a significant gap here. It's as if a week or two of emails is missing or was deleted."

"Maybe Sal did it."

"Maybe." 

Scully stared at the screen, the creeping feeling at the back of her neck screaming that those missing emails were more than just a coincidence. That they just might hold the key to Monica Mitchell's killer, and Mulder's location.

There was one sure way to find out. But the woman hovering at her back wasn't going to like it.

"Vickie, I'm afraid I'm going to have to take this computer with me..."

 

The DeAngelo Residence  
9:14 a.m.

 

Scully loaded Sal's hard drive onto the back seat of the car. Turning briefly toward the house before shutting the car door, she caught a glimpse of Vickie watching her through the window, face tense and arms folded tightly across her chest. Scully's initial suggestion that she take the computer had been met with an emphatic "NO!" and it had taken some persuasive arguing before Vickie had reluctantly agreed to part with it.

Scully settled herself into the driver's seat and started the ignition, hoping she could make good on her promise to have the computer back in Vickie's possession by the next evening. Now all she needed to do was retrieve the missing emails. And she knew just the guys for the job. 

Turning out of the quiet suburban street, Scully joined the stream of traffic heading back to DC. When she reached a straight stretch of road she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and hit 4 on the speed dial. Balancing the phone between ear and shoulder she waited for someone to pick up.

"Lone Gunmen."

"Frohike, it's Scully."

"Ah, the delectable Agent Scully. What can I do for you this fine day?"

"Unfortunately it's not so fine. I need your help."

Scully could almost see the smile slip from his face and the quick squaring of his shoulders.

"Mulder?"

"You could say that." Scully heaved a sigh, and ran her tongue over dry lips, "It's a long story, Frohike, but he's missing. And I may have a piece of evidence in my possession that will shed some light on his whereabouts. A hard drive, actually."

"What can we do?" 

She smiled to herself. No questions, no second-guessing. Straight down to business, just as she'd hoped.

"I need you to meet me at the Hoover. I think there's a block of emails that have been deleted. A few days, maybe a week's worth. I need you to recover them. Mulder's safety may depend on it." 

"Hey, you know us, Scully. Our kung fu is the best."

"I'm counting on it."

She hit end and had the phone halfway to her pocket when it trilled in her hand. 

"Scully."

"It's Skinner. Where are you?"

"I'm heading back to the Bureau with Sal DeAngelo's computer. Apparently...

"Scully. We've had a report on Mulder's car."

She swallowed around the lump in her throat and forced her voice to remain steady.

"Sir, is he...?"

"I don't know. The details are sketchy. A patrolman spotted the car on a routine check and called it in."

"Where?"

"Rock Creek Park. I'm headed there now. Do you know it?"

"Yes. Thank you, sir. I'm on my way." 

Scully dropped her cell on the seat beside her and pushed the gas a little harder. What the hell had Mulder been doing at Rock Creek Park?

 

Rock Creek Park  
9:56 a.m.

 

Scully eased her foot off the gas. Tiny stones crunched under the tires and pinged against the undercarriage as she made her way along the narrow gravel road. It wasn't hard to find the right place. Red and blue lights from a police vehicle telegraphed the location as effectively as a neon sign.

When she rounded the bend, Mulder's blue Taurus came into view. Seeing his car surrounded by law enforcement officers and forensic specialists sent her stomach plummeting and created an ache so deep in her chest it momentarily robbed her of breath. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off a long rectangular area surrounding the vehicle--a sight she was all too familiar with in relation to Mulder. 

Scully pulled the car into a vacant space. She sat, engine still running, hands locked firmly around the steering wheel and eyes glued to the action ahead of her. She wasn't sure she could face this again. Not after everything else they'd just been through. It was too soon.

A sudden onslaught of emotion constricted her throat, her breath hitching around a small sob. She pressed the palms of both hands to her eyes, physically holding the sting of unwelcome tears at bay while at the same time wishing she had the luxury of simply surrendering to them.

Mulder had to be running out of chances. He couldn't continue to tempt fate and expect to walk away. Somewhere along the line his luck was bound to run out.

Willing uncooperative limbs to move, Scully pushed her door open and climbed out of the car. She took a deep breath, straightened her jacket, and walked toward the crowd of investigators.

"Agent Scully."

A firm hand on her arm halted her progress.

"Sir..." She swallowed, and then forced her mouth to ask the question she wasn't sure she wanted him to answer. "Is...Agent Mulder...?"

"No, Scully. There's no sign of him."

Relief weakened her knees and she felt herself sway. Skinner steadied her. "Easy does it, Scully."

"Sir...I..."

"Come and sit down." His large hand grasping her elbow and guiding her away from the car was so Mulder-like she wanted to cry. Instead, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and convincing herself there was still hope of getting Mulder back. Alive.

Skinner led her to a park bench. She eyed him from beneath a loose strand of hair before stubbornly pushing it behind her ear. "I'm fine, sir."

"Sit down, Agent Scully." Lips pursed into a tight line of defiance, already self-conscious over her display of emotion, Scully perched on the edge, refusing to give the impression she intended to stay. Skinner dropped down beside her, leaning forward and propping an elbow on each knee. He clasped his hands and fixed his eyes on the patch of dirt between his feet.

"Sir, what have they found?" 

"The crime scene boys have done a preliminary search of the vehicle. Nothing appears out of the ordinary. However..." Skinner cast a quick look in Scully's direction and sat up straight. "We have found bloodstains on the ground about 30 feet from the car."

Scully kept her face impassive, although she was sure the pounding in her chest could be heard in the next county. 

"We're sending a sample to the lab for analysis." Skinner paused and met Scully's gaze, his voice losing some of its official edge. "We'll find him, Scully."

Scully laid the back of her hand over her mouth, stilling the quiver in her bottom lip. Not now. Not here. 

"They also found faint tire tracks near the blood. They're not in great shape but we're making a cast. It's the best we've got at the moment."

"Actually, no, it's not, sir. I've got Sal DeAngelo's hard drive in my car."

Skinner looked startled. "How did you...? No, don't tell me." 

"When Mulder paid his little visit to the DeAngelo residence yesterday, Vickie found him at her husband's computer. I checked it over. I'm not certain, but some of Agent DeAngelo's emails may have been deleted. I have a strong feeling they are connected to Mulder's disappearance."

Skinner nodded, stroking the line of his jaw with his finger. "We can get it to the lab and have..."

"Sir...I'd rather keep this part off the record. If what I suspect is true, Mulder may be the person responsible for deleting those files. He would never destroy evidence without a good reason, but then, he hasn't exactly been himself lately. I just think it would be better to keep our cards close to our chest for now."

Skinner tipped his head to the side, eyes narrowing, "What do you have in mind, Scully?"

"The Lone Gunmen. I've arranged for them to meet me at the Hoover."

Skinner raised an eyebrow. "You’re having them go to the Hoover? "

"I know, sir, but I didn’t feel comfortable keeping such a key piece of evidence outside normal channels. I know their methods can be a bit…unorthodox, but if anyone can recover those missing emails, they can. And we're running out of time. They can work in the X-Files office; that way the hard drive is still in our custody."

A brief hesitation, but Skinner nodded. "You're right to see that the computer doesn't leave our sight. It could affect the credibility of any evidence we might recover, when it comes time to prosecute our killer. " He grimaced. "Just keep an eye on them." 

"I will." A sudden thought occurred to Scully. "When they searched Mulder's car, did they find the Mitchell case file?"

"No. As far as I know they've found nothing except for a few personal items. Why?"

Scully chewed the inside of her cheek before continuing. "Mulder told me he'd been reading the Mitchell file. He even offered to show it to me last night, which means he had it in his possession. I haven't seen it at my place, so it should have been in his apartment or with him when he came here." She surprised Skinner by swearing softly. "Without that file we're working blind." 

Skinner nodded slowly. "I think it's about time we spoke to someone who was on the case with DeAngelo."

"Sir, if you've no objections, I'd like to contact Kyle McNally. He was the agent in charge and a close friend of Sal DeAngelo. I want to speak to the man convicted of Monica's murder, and Agent McNally will be able to provide me with his name and where he's been incarcerated."

"Go ahead, Scully. Forensics is almost finished with the car and then…"

"There's one problem. The boys should be on their way to the Bureau. The hard drive is still our best lead. They need to begin working on it as soon as possible."

Skinner worked his jaw, gaze traveling between Scully and the activity surrounding Mulder's car. He sighed. "Give the computer to me. I'll babysit the three stooges." A slight twist to his mouth took the sting out of his words. "And you can go speak to McNally."

"Thank you, sir." 

 

Violent Crimes Unit  
11:01 a.m.

 

"Hey, McNally! You coming to the game tonight?" Corey Peterson leaned back in his chair. Index finger hooked into the knot of his tie, he yanked it down to reveal the top button of his shirt. With practiced dexterity he popped the button with thumb and forefinger and let out a quick sigh of relief.

"Hey! Earth to McNally."

Kyle McNally stared intently at his computer monitor, eyes fixed on the image of flying windows leaping toward him. But his thoughts had turned inward. His mind's eye viewed an unwelcome slideshow of a once beautiful woman covered in blood. Of a man, caught in the glare of headlights, face twisted in confusion, then frozen in horror. 

"Hey!" A firm slap on his shoulder sent Kyle to his feet, hands clutching the shirt of the man standing before him. It took a moment for the bewildered face only inches from his own to register as that of Agent Peterson. 

He released him immediately.

Shock sent Corey Peterson reeling backward. Mischief replaced by confusion, he dusted off his shirt and massaged the area where fisted knuckles had dug into soft flesh.

McNally ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Jeezus, Peterson, what are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?" 

Peterson eyed him suspiciously, "You okay, Kyle?"

McNally scrubbed at his face. When he answered an underlying irritation coated his words. "Yeah, I'm okay. What is it with everyone around here and their sudden interest in my health?"

"You gotta admit, McNally, you haven't exactly been yourself lately. Is there something you want to get off your chest?"

A sudden stab of panic turned his blood to ice. He stared at Peterson, eyes narrowed, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Peterson dropped his voice an octave. "Hey, it was tough on you when Sal died. Hell, it was tough on all of us. I know it bugs the hell out of you that we haven't been able to catch the creep who did it. And..." Peterson paused, choosing his words carefully. "I saw the memo this morning." 

"What the hell are you talking about, Peterson? What memo?"

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"About the new profiler."

"New...?"

"McNally! Pick up the phone!" 

Both men turned to see an older, disgruntled agent seated across the room, one hand cupping the mouthpiece of his handset, the other signaling for McNally to take the call.

Giving Peterson an irritated glare, Kyle turned back to his desk and scooped up the receiver.

"This is Kyle McNally."

"Agent McNally, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully. I work in the Hoover. We haven't actually met, but I think you may be able to help me with a case my partner was looking into."

An unpleasant tingle ran up McNally's spine. He turned to Corey, still lingering at his side, and pressed one hand over the phone. "Private call. Give me some space, will you?"

Peterson held his gaze for a second before returning to his own desk, brows pulled into a tight frown, muttering to himself about 'only trying to help.'

Kyle pitched his voice smooth and friendly. "Agent Scully, what can I do for you?" 

"My partner, Agent Mulder, is missing, and I think his disappearance may be connected to a case you worked with Sal DeAngelo. It involved the murder of a woman, Monica Mitchell."

Kyle fought to keep his tone neutral, "Yes, I know the one you're referring to. We caught the killer. He's already stood trial and been found guilty."

"Where is he currently being held?"

He ground his teeth together--there was no way to withhold such information without further raising her suspicions. "Maryland Correctional Adjustment Center. But I don't see how that…"

"We have reason to believe you may have convicted the wrong man. Agent Mulder..."

"Agent Scully, I know all about Agent Mulder. I got a frantic call from my best friend's widow after she found him, uninvited, in her home. I suggest..."

"With all due respect, Agent McNally, from what Vickie DeAngelo has told me, her husband held the same concerns as Agent Mulder. She told me that he couldn't put the case to rest, said there were certain things that just didn't add up. He believed..."

"Sal was under a lot of stress. He thought he saw something that wasn't there. Trust me, we got the right guy. We had hard physical evidence--his prints were on the murder weapon and Monica's blood was all over his clothes. This is a cold-blooded killer, Agent Scully, responsible not only for Monica Mitchell's death, but four other young women, as well. A jury found him guilty, and now he's going to die for his crimes."

"You didn't share Agent DeAngelo's doubts?" 

"Look, Agent Scully, Sal was my friend. He was an excellent profiler, but he had an obsessive streak a mile wide. This wasn't the first time he couldn't let a case go." Kyle dabbed at a drop of sweat sliding down the side of his jaw. "I'm sorry your partner is missing. I'm not sure what he's told you, but after the way he was acting yesterday..." 

"Thank you for your candor, Agent McNally, but I need to check some things out for myself. Please give me the name of the man who was convicted."

Hand slick with perspiration, Kyle locked his fingers in a firm grip around the telephone receiver. His jaw ached with the effort of maintaining control. Reluctantly, he supplied Scully with Gary Jansen's name. 

The erratic clatter of fingers tapping on keyboards and the friendly buzz of bullpen banter came to a brief lull as Kyle slammed the receiver back in its cradle. He gave the trashcan a satisfying kick and ran a trembling hand through sweat-dampened hair. 

"Damn it!" 

McNally swiped at his coat, draped over the back of his chair, cursing loudly when it snagged around the backrest. With an extra tug he pulled the coat free and snatched his briefcase from beside the desk. 

"Hey, McNally! Where you going?" Peterson rose halfway to his feet.

"I'm taking some personal time." Without looking back, Kyle strode purposefully toward the exit.

~~~~~~~~~~  
ACT III  
~~~~~~~~~~

 

Maryland Correctional Adjustment Center  
1:19 p.m.

 

Scully handed over her weapon, squaring her shoulders as she waited for the bars to slide open. Clad in a bright orange coverall, Gary Jansen sullenly watched her step into the cell.

"Just my luck. First beautiful woman I see in longer than I can remember, and she's a Fed."

Scully folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Special Agent Dana Scully. How did you know I was FBI?"

Jansen snorted. "I've talked to enough of you to last a lifetime. Eventually you all start looking alike." He shifted on his bunk so his back was propped against the wall. "What do you want?"

Scully took a half step closer. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about Monica Mitchell."

Dark eyes narrowed. "Look, you've got me right where you wanted me. Why the hell can't you leave me alone? No one believes a word I say anyway."

"What if I were to tell you I have reason to believe you did not kill Monica?"

Something--hope?--flickered in Jansen's eyes before they went flat and hostile. "Yeah? Well it's too bad you weren't around when it counted, lady. In case you haven't noticed, the jury already made their decision."

Scully bit the inside of her cheek, struggling to remain calm, professional. "Mr. Jansen, someone very, very close to me may be in the hands of the real killer. Now I realize you don't know me, and have little cause to trust me. On the other hand, you have nothing to lose by talking to me. And possibly everything to gain."

She submitted to his scrutiny for several long minutes before he nodded. "All right. Go ahead."

Relief left her feeling weak-kneed, but she forged ahead. "What really happened the night Monica Mitchell died?"

Jansen dry washed his face with both hands, then let his head drop back against the wall with a thump. "Somewhere around eight o'clock that night I drove to Monica's house. She hadn't been returning my calls, so I'd decided to just show up on her doorstep."

"My understanding is that you'd broken up nearly a year previous. Why were you trying to see her? Were you hoping to rekindle the relationship?"

Gary snorted. "Hardly. She owed me money, nearly five hundred bucks. She kept promising she'd pay me back and I'd let it slide for months. Then the brakes on my car went out and I needed the cash."

"So you drove over without calling first. What happened when you got there?"

"I rang the bell, pounded on the door--no answer. I started to get pissed off because I was pretty certain she was there. Her car was in the driveway and when I walked around the house I could see lights and hear music playing." He paused and grimaced. "Okay, here comes the stupid part.

"I still had a key to her place. Don't ask me why--I'd been in another relationship for months and I certainly had no intention of ever using it. I was just so damn tired of Monica giving me the runaround and there it was, hanging on my keychain."

"So you let yourself into the house," Scully murmured.

Jansen began rhythmically tapping his head against the cinderblock wall. "Ever notice how you can justify practically anything when you feel like you're getting screwed? I told myself it wasn't breaking and entering because, after all, she'd given me the key. And besides, I was entitled to that money. If I gave Monica a little scare in the process, it was no more than she deserved." His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "If she could see me now. Too bad she'll never know she got the last laugh."

He sucked in a long shaky breath. "She was face down on the floor, halfway between the living room and the kitchen. "I... at first it was like my brain couldn't understand what my eyes were seeing. I thought she must've hurt herself or something--how's that for dense? I ran over and scooped her up in my arms, tried to get her to wake up, t...to breathe. There was so much blood."

Scully observed Jansen carefully during his speech. She was interested to note that despite his earlier bravado he appeared deeply affected by the memories. Increased respiration, the slight stutter, the nervous movements of head and hands. If Jansen was faking, he was one hell of an actor.

"You said you tried to get her to breathe. Was she still alive?"

"No." Jansen spit out the word, sharp and cold. "When I turned her over, her eyes were wide open. And the knife...there was a knife sticking out of her belly. That was when I realized just what I'd stumbled onto. And how it was going to look when the cops showed up."

"So you panicked and ran."

"Damn straight, I did! I never belonged in that apartment in the first place, and now I had her blood all over me."

"And your prints on the knife."

"I tried to wipe them off. Guess I was too rattled to do a good enough job." His lip curled. "Shoulda just left it in her. That's what I get for being sentimental." But the pain in his eyes belied the brutality of his words.

"I'd say that's what you get for fleeing a crime scene. You might not be here right now if you'd faced up to what happened."

"Yeah, right. You've gotta admit, Agent Scully, I was the perfect patsy. It's a story as old as time--the ex-lover becomes insanely jealous over the guy who replaced him. Hell, Monica and I were never shy about fighting in public, before or after we split. There was no shortage of witnesses to that at the trial." He sat forward, cradling his head in his hands. "Bad enough when I thought I was taking the rap for Monica's murder. But when they dragged out those other dead women..."

Scully didn't respond for a moment, replaying Jansen's words. "Gary, are you saying Monica was involved with someone?"

A nasty laugh. "Agent Scully, Monica was always involved with someone. She wasn't the type to let the sheets get cold, if you know what I mean."

"Do you know if the police checked him out?"

Jansen's head popped up. "As a suspect? No, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Because they already had their man." The sneer faded and he sighed. "Anyway, Monica was seeing the guy on the down low. He was married."

A spark of hope flared, warming the cold inside her. Somehow Scully knew instinctively that this was it. This is what she'd come for.

"She told you about him?"

"She liked to rub my nose in it now and then. See, Monica was an ambitious little lady and I never really measured up to her standards. I was good enough for a screw and a few laughs, but she dropped me like a hot potato when Mr. Wonderful came along."

Tamping down her excitement was excruciating, but Scully kept her features bland. "What did she tell you about him?"

"Nothing specific. That he had a hotshot job and was climbing his way up the ladder. That he'd tell his wife he was going out of town on business and then sneak off to some sleazy motel with Monica." He rolled his eyes. "And that he was gonna get a divorce so he could marry her."

"You didn't believe that last part?"

Jansen shrugged. "I guess it's possible. I learned a long time ago not to underestimate Monica. She might've looked like Barbie on the outside, but on the inside..."

"What?"

His lips curved. "On the inside, she was Xena. Nothing stood between her and what she wanted. Not for long."

Except this time, Scully thought. This time, she met her match.

"Thank you for talking to me, Mr. Jansen," she said aloud. "You've been very helpful."

"Is that it?" He sprang to his feet, though he was careful not to approach her. "That's all? What about me? If you believe I didn't kill Monica, what are you going to do to get me out of here?"

Scully signaled the guard to open the cell. "I'm going to find the man who did."

For the first time, Jansen's composure broke. "Please, hurry. There's not much time."

I know, she wanted to scream. Instead she walked briskly past the whistles and catcalls and tried not to wonder if she was already too late.

 

The Atlantis  
Bungalow 26C  
3:06 p.m.

 

"Damn it!" 

Mulder collapsed against the mattress, sweat trickling down his temples to darken the satin sheets. His head ached, his shoulder burned, and the inside of his mouth had turned to sandpaper. Nearly seven hours of focused effort had earned him a bruised wrist, bloody fingertips, and the three screws squirreled carefully under the pillow. All for naught, unfortunately, due to the one stubborn holdout that refused to budge. The steel ring holding the left handcuff jiggled and spun but refused to pull free.

Mulder's eyes fluttered closed and he drifted, exhaustion temporarily overcoming fear. Not awake, not fully asleep, images flickered through his mind, jumbled and hazy. 

Soft, strong hands moving over the tight muscles in his shoulders and chest, first soothing, then arousing. Reaching up to tangle his fingers in hair like red silk, pulling her down, lips brushing, then clashing. Breathless laughter: Mulder, this is supposed to be therapy. Silencing her with another kiss: It's working, I feel better already...

...I feel better already, Scully. Why should I have to sit around for another three weeks before...? Blue eyes radiate anger and tears while her hand traces still tender flesh. Damn it, Mulder, for once in your life can't you exercise a little self-preservation? This time you weren't poised on the edge of the abyss--you were in freefall. Her voice breaks and suddenly only anger remains, like a knife to his heart. Don't you get it? For three minutes I lost you...

...I've lost you. Blue eyes shimmer, darken. Short copper tresses lengthen to a cascade of long black curls. She drops to her knees, heedless of the cold, muddy ground and traces a name etched into stone. I told you to call the damn tow truck. If you'd listened to me the first time, this never would've happened. If I'd gotten there five minutes sooner... Sobs wrack her slender shoulders and she presses her cheek to the icy granite. Oh, God, Sal, I'm sorry. Five minutes and I've lost you forever...

He groans, struggling to reach past an impenetrable barrier. Vickie. Cara mia...

"...Vickie. So sorry."

"Stop it!" 

Pain exploded along Mulder's jaw, wrenching him to full consciousness. He blinked, struggling to think past the buzzing in his ears and the taste of copper on his tongue. Kyle stood over him, fist upraised, his face nearly purple with anger.

"Hi, honey. How was your day?" His rapidly swelling lip contributed an unintended but effective lisp.

"I want you to tell me where the disk is--now--or I'm going to show you just how tired I am of your little Twilight Zone act."

"I've heard dehydration causes memory loss."

They glared at each other in Mexican standoff fashion for several long minutes before Kyle stalked into the bathroom, cursing under his breath. Mulder heard the crackle of cellophane wrapping and then the blessed patter of water on plastic. He propped himself up on his elbows, remembering the loosened cuff when it rattled. Darting a quick look at the bathroom, he carefully shifted his body to conceal the loosened bracket.

Kyle returned, water in hand, but simply stood beside the bed. Mulder struggled unsuccessfully to conceal how desperately he wanted the contents of the cup. He instinctively ran his tongue over cracked lips, though his mouth was too dry to provide any real relief.

"Maybe you should decide how badly you want this." Kyle waved the water in front of his face.

"I could say the same about the disk."

Kyle gritted his teeth, grabbed Mulder by the hair, and thrust the cup to his lips. Mulder gulped down two delicious mouthfuls before the water was swiftly withdrawn. He pressed his lips tightly together to hold back a whimper of frustration.

"That's enough for now."

Mulder pulled his lips into his mouth, sucking every drop of moisture from them. "You're a real prince."

"Give me the location of the disk and you can have all the water you can drink."

"Last I heard, dead men don't need much."

He saw the fist coming this time, but couldn't move fast enough to dodge it. Mulder's head rocked back and warmth gushed from his nose. 

"I'm tired of the smart mouth, too. You'd better come clean or..."

Kyle's voice faded as the white noise in his head grew louder and his vision swam in and out of focus. This time he clearly felt himself shoved gently aside as another presence took over.

"Managgia! You really think he's gonna give up the only thing keeping him alive? If so, you're stupid as well as crazy, paisan'."

Kyle stumbled back a step, eyes huge. "I told you to stop that."

"You're the one who needs to stop. How far you gonna take this? You cut up your girl, pinned it on an innocent man, ran down your best friend like a dog in the street. Now you're ready to kill this poor schmuck? When's it gonna end, Goombah?"

Kyle dropped the cup; clapped his hands over his ears. "Shut up, SHUT UP!" He lowered his hands and stabbed one finger at Mulder's chest. "You're dead, paisan'. I watched them bury you. So you can stop spouting this bullshit, because I'm not buying it."

The eyes regarding him darkened to black. "You watched 'em put me in the ground, all right. And you were right there to comfort Vickie when she was ready to follow me. How'd it feel, huh? Holding my wife in your arms, knowing you're responsible?" His voice rose in an eerie imitation of Kyle's. "We're here for you, Vickie. Anything you need, day or night, you just call."

Kyle's face went chalk white and he swayed on his feet. "That's imposs... How could you...?"

His lips stretched into a bloody grin. "Because I was there, you bastard. I was there."

Kyle turned and fled.

 

The X-Files Office  
3:14 p.m.

 

Their bickering was driving her nuts.

"Are you about finished with that?"

"Keep your pants on, Hickey. I'm going as fast as I can."

"Which is exactly why you should've let me do it."

"Like you'd be any faster."

"My mother would be faster."

"Oh yeah? Well, your mother is..."

"Gentlemen, this isn't helping Mulder. Frohike, move over a minute."

"Ow! Watch it, that's my foot!"

Scully shoved back her chair, stood, and strode out of the office, the staccato tap of her heels barely registering above the raised voices. She stabbed the elevator button with her thumb, folded her arms, and tucked chin to chest as she listened to the car rumble down the shaft.

She'd been going over her notes, trying to fit the pieces she'd gleaned from Vickie and Gary into some sort of cogent whole. One that would somehow point her in the direction of the killer--and Mulder. Her head throbbed from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and her body felt like a tightly coiled spring. One more minute cooped up with the poster triplets for annoying computer geeks and she wouldn't be responsible for her own actions.

The elevator doors slid open and she nearly collided with Skinner, who was studying a piece of paper in his hand. Scully took three quick steps backward, allowing the AD to exit the car.

"Excuse me, sir, I was just..." She shook off her surprise. "Is there something new on the case?"

"Ted just dropped off the composite put together by Mulder's neighbor. I thought you'd like to see it before we start distributing copies."

Scully accepted the proffered sketch, a frown creasing her pale brow as she scrutinized the bland features. "Nothing particularly striking. Didn't the guy have any distinguishing features--a mole, freckles, something?"

Skinner cupped the back of his neck, massaging the flesh with a grimace. "Ted said it took her a long time. She claims it was pretty dark in the apartment and he only opened the door a crack, so she couldn't see much."

She started to hand the sketch back to Skinner; hesitated, her frown deepening. "Still... There's something about him, about the eyes, that seems almost...familiar."

Skinner ducked his head to better see her face. "Funny you should mention the eyes. According to Ted, that was the one feature she was completely sure of. She said they ‘gave her the creeps.'"

Scully studied the face a moment longer, then returned the paper to Skinner with a shake of her head. "It's not going to be much help, I'm afraid. That could be anyone of a hundred guys--a thousand. We need something concrete, damn it, we're chasing shadows."

Skinner's eyebrow lifted at the slip. "How did things go with Jansen? Did you learn anything new?"

"Only that Monica Mitchell was an ambitious woman who knew exactly what she wanted. And that she was involved with a married man."

"You think he could be the killer?"

Scully pursed her lips. "I think maybe Monica wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."

"Then we need to concentrate our efforts on finding out just who this mystery man is." Skinner thrust his chin toward the office door. "Have they had any success?"

"Getting on my nerves, yes; with the computer, nothing yet."

The acid tone brought Skinner's eyes back to her face. "Scully, we're doing everything possible to find Mulder. It's been less than twenty-four hours, you can't expect..."

"With all due respect, sir, if the man in Mulder's apartment found what he was looking for, Mulder may already be dead. If by some chance, however, he left empty handed, Mulder's only hope may be for us to find it first. Whatever 'it' is." She glared up at him, anger her only shield against the deeper emotion she refused to reveal. "I can expect, sir, and I do."

Before Skinner could respond, Byers barreled out of the office. He pulled up short when he saw Scully and Skinner.

"We've found something. I think this is it."

Scully darted a quick glance at the AD before following Byers into the office. Langly and Frohike, clustered in front of the computer, parted like the Red Sea when they saw Skinner on Scully's heels. 

"It's an email with an attached photo, nearly a year old," Frohike explained as Scully skimmed the writing on the screen. "Looks like it came into the guy's work computer and he forwarded it to this one."

...wonder how the lovely Mrs. Kyle McNally would feel...

Scully's sharp intake of air drew four pair of eyes. She gripped the edge of the table, knees turned to jelly. "Oh my god."

Alarmed by the uncharacteristic behavior, Skinner grasped her elbow. "What is it, Agent?"

"Scroll down to the photo." She forced the words past numb lips, the sound of her own heartbeat deafening.

There was a brief power struggle as both Frohike and Langly went for the mouse. With a low growl of impatience, Skinner batted away their hands and took control of the device himself. He gave a cursory glance at the photo before returning his gaze to the more troubling sight of Scully's chalk white face.

"Scully, what is it?"

"Let me see that sketch again."

Skinner handed her the drawing, grinding his teeth as he waited her out. She studied the drawing, then the photo, finally holding the piece of paper beside the monitor. The resemblance between the two was obvious.

"I'd say we found our killer." Skinner frowned, reaching out to take the sketch from her trembling fingers. "Let's get a copy of that photo, start running it..."

"I know who it is, sir. And I'm guessing you do, too."

Her soft words had the impact of a scream. Skinner broke off, expression blank with surprise. "What?"

"I saw that face just this morning in a photo on Sal DeAngelo's desk. And I spoke to the man not more than four hours ago when I called for information on Gary Jansen. Sir, that's Kyle McNally."

Skinner's incomprehension faded to disbelief. "McNally? Isn't he a profiler in the BSU?"

Scully nodded, some of the color returning to her cheeks as anger replaced shock. "Profiler, ASAC, Sal DeAngelo's best friend." A pause. "Monica Mitchell's killer."

"And Mulder's kidnapper." Skinner strode over to Mulder's desk and picked up the phone.

Scully turned back to the screen. "Jansen said they'd sneak off to a motel. That must be where this photo was taken."

"Either that or the dude has the kind of bedroom most guys just dream about--" Langly grunted as Byers elbowed him in the ribs.

"Is there anything else we can do to help, Agent Scully?"

"I'll need a copy of this file on a disk. Maybe with a little enhancement we'll be able to pick up a detail that can tell us where this place is."

"Your wish is our command." The response was delivered without the usual leer, communicating Frohike's worry more clearly than words. 

Scully forced a smile, ashamed by her earlier impatience. "Thanks. You three have been an enormous help."

"You know we'd do anything for you and Mulder." Byers glanced a bit nervously at Skinner, who was barking into the phone. "If you don't mind, we're going to keep looking. Just in case there's something more."

"Of course. Take all the time you need."

Skinner hung up the phone. The clenched jaw and stiff shoulders told Scully all she needed to know.

"He's not there now, is he?"

"He left around noon--hasn't been back. No one seems to know where he is or how to get in touch with him. I can try calling his wife, but..."

"I doubt he's got Mulder stashed in the basement." Scully stared at the disk Frohike placed into her hand. "I don't know how Sal DeAngelo came into possession of this email, but it may be the only thing that's kept Mulder alive. And our only hope for finding him that way."

Skinner gestured toward the door. "Then I suggest, Agent, that you get started."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
ACT IV  
~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The Atlantis  
4:19 p.m.

 

The exquisite torment of thirst, the sensation that his mouth had somehow become one with the Gobi Desert, had been completely eclipsed by this new misery. Mulder blinked back sweat that persistently dripped into his right eye and tried to concentrate on the gradually loosening handcuff rather than his screaming bladder.

"Good thing...I never had that...cup of coffee." He ground the words through gritted teeth as he worked the bracket back and forth. "Something to be said...for dehydration."

His eyes sought out the clock and he tugged harder, grimacing at the bright sparks of pain in his wrist. McNally had been gone over an hour. The little voice in his head--the one he ignored all too frequently--whispered that it was now or never. McNally was nearly out of patience, and Mulder was nearly out of time. 

"Some mess you got me into, paisan'. Set up the chess board--I got a feeling we'll be meeting face to face real soon." 

The intruder that had somehow taken up residence in his soul remained silent, and yet... Mulder could feel him there, grief and anger simmering on a low boil. He shivered, torn between dread and empathy, and rattled both handcuffs.

"Should see me now, Scully. You thought...I was crazy...when I dreamed about him." He punctuated each pause with a vicious yank on the chains. "Now I'm actually...talking to him."

A grinding scrape of metal on metal and the final screw flew through the air, landing on the carpet with a barely audible plop. Mulder lifted his newly-freed arm and watched a trickle of blood run from wrist to elbow, momentarily mesmerized. 

Shaking off the shock-induced stupor, he sat up, only to groan in frustration. Focused on removing the loose bracket, it had never occurred to him that the phone was on the left side of the large bed. Even with his wrist no longer tethered to the headboard, his fingertips barely brushed the corner of the nightstand. Mulder lunged against the right cuff, nearly pulling his shoulder from its socket, to no avail. His lifeline to Scully perched cheerily on the table, oblivious to his curses.

Mulder slumped back onto the mattress and glared at his reflection. Hours of tedious, agonizing work and what did he have to show for his pain? No means to call for help, no weapon... The only object within reach was the empty cup, and the damn thing was made of plastic. 

"What's up with that?" he growled at himself in the overhead mirror. "Silk sheets on the bed and they can't afford real glass..."

He watched a slow, cunning smile spread across the face of the man in the mirror. 

Mulder scooted onto his knees and turned toward the mirrored headboard. Grasping firmly the bracket that now dangled from the left handcuff, he brought it sharply against the glass with as much force as he could muster. There was a crunch like breaking eggshells, and several hairline cracks radiated out from the point of impact. Clamping his lower lip between his teeth, Mulder raised the bracket and smashed it against the mirror again. This time the glass shattered, several shards popping out to land on the pillow. 

Mulder picked up the largest, sharp as a knife and tapered to a wicked point. No match for a gun, but maybe he could make sure McNally had some 'splainin' to do back at the bullpen--and get in a few licks for the man he'd failed. He tucked the other pieces of glass beneath the pillow.

"Bring it on."

Mulder flung himself onto his back, pressing the broken bracket back into the headboard as best he could.

And waited.

 

Hoover Building  
4:31 p.m.

"There. What is that?" One manicured fingernail pointed at a white patch on the purple sheets.

"Looks like a towel. Hang on."

Rob Eddings, the irreverent whiz kid of photographic evidence, zoomed in on the object. Several clicks of the mouse, and Scully and Skinner could clearly see a white towel draped across the end of the bed.

Skinner leaned closer, adjusting his glasses. "See the gold near the top? Looks like some kind of emblem."

"Probably a logo for the hotel." Eagerness seeped into Scully's voice. "Can you clean it up enough to read it?"

"Patience, grasshopper. I'm trying."

Scully realized she was breathing down the Edding's neck; stepped back a pace, flushing when she felt Skinner's gaze. "I know you are, Rob."

"There...we...go." More clicks and the gold lettering on the towel sharpened. Rob frowned. "That's about as clear as she's gonna get, I'm afraid."

"Looks like an A." Scully traced the letter, careful not to touch the screen. "Here's the point. And this is the cross bar."

"Except there's something running diagonally through it. It almost looks like a fork." Skinner looked down at Eddings. "We'll need a printout of this."

"Gotcha covered." Eddings reached over, pulled the photo off the printer and handed it to Scully. "Hope it helps you find Agent Mulder."

"So do I." Scully smiled at the young agent. "Thanks, Rob. Hope we didn't cause you any trouble, jumping the line like this."

Eddings chuckled. "No problem. I'll just blame it on the AD."

Skinner gave him a quelling look that appeared to go completely unnoticed. Not for the first time Scully reflected that Eddings and Mulder were two branches off the same tree.

"I'm going to start searching for hotels online," she told Skinner as they stepped into the elevator. "If we proceed from the assumption that the name begins with the letter A, and factor in the...peculiarities of room design and clientele, we should be able to narrow the field to a manageable number."

"The DC police have put out an APB on Kyle McNally and I've got some of our own people looking for him, as well. If he surfaces, we'll be waiting."

Scully stared at the floor indicator light as it tracked their descent. "I'm afraid I tipped him off when I called about Jansen. He knows I've connected Mulder's disappearance to the Mitchell case."

"You had no way of knowing one of our own would be the killer." Skinner shook his head. "His own wife hasn't got a clue. She told me he's been sent out of town on a case. Asked if she could pass a message to him when he calls home."

The elevator lumbered to a halt and the doors opened. Skinner cast a final intent look at Scully's face before stepping out. "I'm going to check in with the boys in blue. Keep me apprised of the situation."

"I will."

The doors began to roll shut but Skinner stopped them with an outflung arm. "Scully, if not for your sound investigative technique, we wouldn't have that photo. Whatever happens...you've done everything you could for Mulder."

She tipped her chin up and coolly met his concerned gaze. "I respectfully disagree, sir. I haven't found him--yet."

She held on to the illusion of confidence until Skinner removed his arm and allowed the doors to close. Sagging against the back wall, Scully pressed trembling fingers to her lips.

"When I bail you out of this one I expect some serious groveling, Mulder. Don't you dare deprive me of the pleasure."

She'd regained her composure by the time the elevator reached the basement. The Gunmen were still huddled around DeAngelo's computer, though Frohike and Langly apparently had put aside their squabbling. Scully sank into her chair with a sigh and booted up her computer.

"Find anything new?"

Langly glanced up from the screen, poking at his glasses with one long finger. "Only that the dude bookmarked some righteous porn sites."

"Terrific," Scully muttered. 

She'd pulled up Google and was beginning a search when Frohike wandered over. He lifted the photo and squinted at it. 

"Well, what do ya know? The guy was playing nookie with her at The Atlantis, huh? At least he has good taste."

She was concentrating so hard it took Scully a moment to process his words. Her head snapped up. "You recognize that logo?"

Frohike snorted as if the very question insulted his intelligence. "Of course I do. It's The Atlantis. Classiest no-tell motel there is. Way I hear it, they cater to all appetites. If you can't find it there, it doesn't exist."

"You're certain?"

By this time Byers and Langly had picked up on the exchange and come over to stare at the picture in their friend's hand.

"He's right. See? This object across the 'A' is a trident. That's the Atlantis's trademark." Byers flushed at Scully's raised eyebrow. "Um--so I've heard."

"How far is it?"

A brief, silent consultation before Frohike spoke up. "It's in Hagerstown, about an hour from here. I can draw you a map."

Scully stood and snatched up the phone. "Do it."

 

The Atlantis  
6:12 p.m.

 

He'd have sworn he was too wired to sleep, but his body had other ideas. A puff of cool air carrying the faint scent of fall leaves and fireplaces brought Mulder out of a light doze. He winced when his fingers closed reflexively around the glass shard, nearly piercing the skin. Leaning up on his elbows, he scooted back toward the headboard, attempting to shield the broken bracket with his body as much as possible.

McNally pocketed his keys but remained standing just inside the door. In the muted light the glitter of his eyes gave Mulder the distinct impression he was being examined like a particularly interesting bug. A fifty-pound weight settled on his chest, and a tingling sensation began at the back of his neck, shooting down his spine. He pressed his thumb against the glass shard, the bright spike of pain driving back panic until he could breathe again. He batted his eyes.

"See anything you like?"

The wisecrack seemed to pull McNally from a daze. His lip curled. "You know, I always heard you were a pain in the ass, Mulder. The stories don't do you justice."

"You obviously haven't been talking to the right people."

Kyle didn't reply, but he stepped close to the bed. His right hand drifted to the small of his back and touched something tucked into the waistband of his slacks. 

Mulder futilely attempted to wet dry lips. "You know, it'd be in your best interest to let me use the little agent's room. Otherwise I'm afraid at least one of us is going to regret it."

"I don't think that will be necessary."

Damn. I hate it when I'm right.

Mulder kept his expression neutral. "If you really want that disk..."

"It's too late for that now. Your partner's poking her nose around, asking all the right questions. It's only a matter of time before she figures things out."

"Then turn yourself in. This doesn't have to end badly."

Kyle chuffed a bitter little laugh. "I killed my best friend, Agent Mulder. It already has."

"Is that regret I hear, McNally?"

For the first time something like remorse flickered in Kyle's eyes. "I didn't want to kill him, he left me no choice. Sal was a good friend, but he never would've kept his mouth shut." The emotion vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "This is all Monica's fault. That cheap little hustler got exactly what she deserved."

"Of course, cheating on your wife is hardly the moral high ground."

That stare again. Flat. Assessing. "How do you do it?"

It wasn't the reaction he'd expected. Mulder eyed Kyle warily. "What?"

"Sound like...him. I can understand where you came up with the idea. I've heard about the stuff you and your partner investigate--aliens and Bigfoot and crazy shit like that. What I don't understand is how you knew those things about him. About...what happened."

Mulder sensed it--the slow burn of anger and betrayal. He tried to push back, determined to remain in control, but it was like trying to stem a tidal wave with a bucket. "You mean how it felt to be blinded by headlights and to hear the sound of your bones breaking? Or what it was like watch your best friend drive away while you choked to death on your own blood?"

Kyle recoiled, face a sickly gray. "That doesn't mean a damn thing. Your partner's a pathologist. You could easily have picked up that information from the police report, or the autopsy."

And suddenly, Mulder found he owned the anger as completely as the tortured soul of his unwelcome guest. As one they turned on Kyle, zeroing in for the proverbial kill.

"How about this, paisan'? You took your foot off the gas for a split second before you ran me down." A nasty, jeering laugh. "You were almost too chickenshit to go through with it."

Face twisted by rage, McNally snatched a Bureau-issue Sig from his waistband and leveled it at Mulder's head. "I'm going to shut you up, once and for all."

"Do it like a man this time, you bastard. Tuck it right under my chin and look me in the eye when you pull the trigger."

"With pleasure."

Kyle propped one knee on the mattress and bent over. With one quick motion Mulder rolled toward him, swinging his left arm in a wide arc. The heavy steel bracket dangling from the handcuff caught Kyle across the cheekbone, splitting skin. He yelped, swaying as blood sprayed from the wound. The gun slipped from his fingers, falling to the mattress with a soft thump, and he tumbled on top of Mulder.

McNally's weight drove the air from Mulder's lungs and pinned his left arm to his chest. He dug his heels into the mattress and bucked his hips, attempting to throw Kyle off so he could use the chunk of glass. Kyle rammed an elbow into Mulder's chest, fingers scrabbling for the dropped Sig. The blow, though lacking in real force, connected with still healing muscles and tissue. Mulder screamed and nearly lost his grip on the glass, vision graying around the edges and an insistent hammering in his head. 

Their struggle had knocked the gun halfway across the slippery sheets. Kyle, sensing his advantage, planted one hand over Mulder's heart. He raised up, forcing Mulder's chest to support the full weight of his upper body, while he reached for the weapon.

"Get ready, paisan'. I'm gonna send you back to hell where you belong." He leaned across the mattress, legs shifting slightly to maintain his balance. 

With a howl of rage and pain, Mulder brought up his knee squarely between McNally's now parted legs. Kyle shrieked, rolling onto his side in a fetal curl. With superhuman effort, Mulder scrambled onto his knees, respiration reduced to sobbing gasps for air. He knocked the gun off the bed and pressed the razor sharp piece of mirror into Kyle's throat. Kyle groaned, then gasped as blood oozed from the edges.

"Time for you to join me, you son of a bitch. Let's see how you like it on this side."

The pounding in his head became a single, deafening bang. Scully and Skinner blew through the door with a gust of cold air.

"Federal Agents. Freeze!" Guns leveled, they stared at the tableau before them.

"It's okay, Mulder. We've got things under control. Let him go and step back."

Despite his giddy sensation of relief, Mulder wondered at her careful, soothing tone. He blinked at a stinging drop of sweat, reflecting that he must look pretty bad for Scully to use her "victim" voice. 

"Put it down, Mulder."

His fingers wouldn't move--in fact, they pressed the shard more firmly into flesh. Beneath him, Kyle whimpered again and more blood trickled down to darken the sheets. Mulder gaped at his own hand, willing the digits to obey. Stunned, then frightened when they defied him. 

"Don't do this." He said it aloud, not caring how it sounded. Scully and Skinner already thought he was crazy. Might as well go for broke. "It's over." 

"Mulder..." She trailed off when Mulder lifted huge eyes to her face, pleading. Skinner remained silent, watchful.

Mulder closed his eyes, mentally following the connection, his voice soft and reassuring. "He'll pay for what he did, and Gary Jansen will walk out of prison a free man. Justice has been served, Sal. You can let go."

A bewildering jumble of emotion rose up within him--regret, sorrow, release. It flooded his soul like an enormous wave, breaking over him, washing through him.

And was gone.

Mulder dropped the makeshift knife and moved back against the headboard. He pressed one hand to his chest, shivering as he watched his boss efficiently take McNally into custody.

"You all right?" Skinner's inquiry was as business-like as his Miranda recitation.

"Yeah." He looked up at Scully. "I'm okay."

She unlocked the remaining cuff, fingers discretely massaging torn flesh, eyes communicating everything Skinner's presence restrained. A feather-light touch to his bruised cheek and the lump on the back of his head, then a raised brow. "You'll still need to see a doctor." A pause. "But I think we can dispense with the psychiatrist."

So he wasn't the only one with regrets. One corner of Mulder's mouth turned up. "Deal."

The adrenaline rush ebbed and he was suddenly aware of a need more pressing than any of his other aches and pains. "Uh, Scully. I do have a bit of a problem. In fact, I'd call it an emergency."

She snapped to attention. "What's wrong, Mulder? Is it your chest? Your head?"

"Uh-uh." He lurched to his feet, barely resisting the urge to dance. "My bladder. If I don't make it to the bathroom in about ten seconds I'm going to contaminate a crime scene."

Scully folded her arms as he staggered past her. "Damn it, Mulder, that's not funny. You had me really worried."

"Brings a whole new meaning to the term 'pissing you off,' huh, Scully?" He flashed her an impudent grin as he shut the door.

She sighed and shook her head. Mulder's irreverent sense of humor had apparently survived intact--and so had he.

Thank God.

 

~~~~~~~~~~  
Epilogue  
~~~~~~~~~~

Hoover Building  
Two days later

Skinner closed the file folder and leaned back in his chair. "I've read your report, Agent Mulder. You must admit your account of the events is more than a bit...unorthodox."

Mulder shrugged. "I've given you the truth. How you choose to interpret it is completely up to you."

"Is it true that Agent McNally has admitted culpability for the murder of Monica Mitchell?" Scully asked.

Skinner nodded. "And of Agent DeAngelo, as well. We have a signed confession." Skinner gave Mulder a shrewd look. "According to the DC cops, he was eager to cooperate, even waived his right to have an attorney present. They said he seemed anxious, kept muttering some nonsense about burying the dead."

Mulder's face revealed nothing. "And Gary Jansen?"

"Should be released within the next 24 hours, if he hasn't been already. He owes you his life, Mulder."

The hint of a grin tugged at the corners of Mulder's mouth but his expression was wistful. "Not me."

Skinner glanced uneasily at Scully, then forged ahead. "At any rate, McNally's confession omits our need for the email that cost Agent DeAngelo's life--and nearly yours, as well."

All traces of the smile vanished. "I believe that's called irony, sir."

Scully turned from Skinner to her partner. "That reminds me, Mulder. Where did you put the floppy disk McNally was after? He certainly tore up your apartment looking for it."

He smirked. "I subscribe to the 'hide in plain sight' rule, Scully. I labeled it and put it with all my other disks."

Both eyebrows soared. "You labeled it? As what?"

The smirk became a grin. "Porn."

She rolled her eyes and turned back to Skinner. "Is that all, sir?"

"I'd say that's more than enough, Agent Scully," Skinner replied dryly.

As they stood up he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a piece of paper. "By the way, you might be interested to know that the owner of The Atlantis was quite upset when he learned a murderer had used his establishment to hold a federal agent hostage. He doesn't want his reputation tarnished by the negative publicity."

"Some reputation," Scully muttered.

"Be that as it may, he insisted on giving me this certificate for two complementary nights in one of the deluxe Jacuzzi suites."

Mulder snickered. "Walter, you dog! Who's the lucky lady?"

Skinner slowly stood and walked around his desk, face unreadable.

Scully glared at Mulder. "Sir, I'm sure Agent Mulder intended no disrespect..." She trailed off when she realized Skinner's expression was smug, not angry.

"Actually I thought I'd pass it along to you two. I'm sure you'll figure out what to do with it. There's a three day weekend coming up soon, isn't there?" He pressed the coupon into Mulder's hand with a cheery shark's grin.

Mulder stared blankly at the coupon while Scully's cheeks flushed and she searched futilely for an appropriate response. As if oblivious to their discomfiture, Skinner sauntered back to his desk, sat down, and began reading from a file folder. He glanced up at them over the top of his glasses.

"That's all, Agents. Dismissed."

It wasn't until they were alone in the elevator that Scully found her voice. "Well. I guess that's his way of telling us he knows. How do you suppose he found out?"

Mulder shrugged. "Does it matter? Cat was bound to squirm out of the bag sooner or later."

She scowled at him, hands propped on hips. “You're awfully calm about this! Aren't you the least bit concerned that our boss now knows we've both been playing doctor?"

Mulder shrugged, never taking his eyes from the certificate his hands. "Nah. Skinner doesn't care, Scully. As long as we aren't playing tonsil hockey or doing the naked pretzel in the office, he'll look the other way. Right now we've got something far more important to worry about."

"Really? And what would that be?"

He waved the certificate in front of her nose, a kid with a new toy. "How soon can we use this?"


End file.
